Plongez dans l’univers captivant de la littérature policière française avec *Monsieur Lecoq — Volume 1* d’Émile Gaboriau 🔎✨. Considéré comme l’un des pères fondateurs du roman policier moderne, Gaboriau nous entraîne ici dans une enquête haletante où le mystère, la logique et l’ingéniosité se mêlent pour captiver le lecteur du début à la fin.
Dans ce premier volume, nous faisons la connaissance de Monsieur Lecoq, jeune agent de la Sûreté parisienne, dont l’intelligence et la perspicacité vont rapidement le distinguer comme un enquêteur hors pair. L’affaire s’ouvre sur un crime apparemment simple, mais derrière les apparences se cachent des secrets redoutables, des faux-semblants et des intrigues complexes. 🕵️♂️
👉 Ce chef-d’œuvre de Gaboriau n’est pas seulement un récit policier, mais aussi une fresque vivante de la société parisienne du XIXe siècle. Chaque page dévoile les tensions sociales, les contrastes entre les classes et les passions humaines qui alimentent l’histoire.
Pourquoi écouter cette œuvre ?
– 🎧 Une intrigue riche en suspense et en rebondissements.
– 🏙️ Une plongée dans le Paris du Second Empire.
– 📚 Un classique fondateur du genre policier, précurseur de Conan Doyle.
– 👀 Un héros unique : fin observateur, méthodique et fascinant.
Si vous aimez les enquêtes pleines de suspense, les mystères complexes et les récits intelligemment construits, cette lecture audio est faite pour vous. 🌟
🔔 Abonnez-vous pour découvrir d’autres chefs-d’œuvre littéraires : https://bit.ly/LivresAudioLaMagieDesMots
-📖🔍 Monsieur Lecoq — Volume 1 | Émile Gaboriau[https://youtu.be/Ya1060-PXwM]
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**Navigate by Chapters or Titles:**
00:00:39 Chapter 1.
00:22:51 Chapter 2.
00:30:47 Chapter 3.
00:38:42 Chapter 4.
01:02:39 Chapter 5.
01:10:13 Chapter 6.
01:17:49 Chapter 7.
01:26:03 Chapter 8.
01:39:55 Chapter 9.
01:54:57 Chapter 10.
02:03:17 Chapter 11.
02:11:22 Chapter 12.
02:26:55 Chapter 13.
02:35:15 Chapter 14.
02:43:24 Chapter 15.
02:51:33 Chapter 16.
03:15:53 Chapter 17.
03:23:56 Chapter 18.
03:31:51 Chapter 19.
03:39:55 Chapter 20.
03:55:38 Chapter 21.
04:11:41 Chapter 22.
04:19:44 Chapter 23.
04:36:05 Chapter 24.
04:43:46 Chapter 25.
04:59:56 Chapter 26.
05:07:50 Chapter 27.
05:16:05 Chapter 28.
05:24:20 Chapter 29.
05:32:19 Chapter 30.
05:48:15 Chapter 31.
05:56:11 Chapter 32.
06:11:54 Chapter 33.
06:27:27 Chapter 34.
06:43:07 Chapter 35.
06:50:38 Chapter 36.
07:13:42 Chapter 37.
07:29:17 Chapter 38.
07:44:15 Chapter 39.
07:53:00 Chapter 40.
08:00:39 Chapter 41.
08:08:47 Chapter 42.
08:24:34 Chapter 43.
Let’s dive together into the breathtaking world of Émile Gaboriau with Monsieur Lecoq — Volume 1. Considered one of the founding fathers of the detective novel, Gaboriau takes us on an investigation full of twists and turns where logic and instinct clash on every page. The mysterious character of Lecoq, a Sûreté investigator, uses his intelligence and innovative methods to solve puzzles that everyone believes are insoluble. Between crime scenes, disturbing interrogations, and hidden clues, this story plunges us into an atmosphere of suspense that heralds the golden age of the detective novel. Prepare to discover a masterpiece that has inspired many writers after him. Chapter 1. On February 20, 18…, a Sunday, which happened to be Shrove Sunday , at eleven o’clock in the evening, a patrol of security service officers left the police station at the former Barrière d’Italie. The mission of this patrol was to explore this vast district which extends from the road to Fontainebleau to the Seine, from the outer boulevards to the fortifications. These deserted areas then had the unfortunate reputation that the quarries of America have today. Venturing there at night was considered so dangerous that soldiers from the forts who came to Paris, with permission from the show, were ordered to wait at the barrier and to enter only in groups of three or four. This is because the vacant lots, still numerous, became, after midnight, the domain of this rabble of wretches without confession or asylum, who dread even the summary formalities of the most infamous lodging houses. Vagabonds and ex-convicts would meet there. If the day had been good, they would feast on food stolen from the stalls. When sleep overcame them, they slipped under the factory sheds or among the ruins of abandoned houses. Everything had been done to dislodge such dangerous guests, but the most energetic measures remained in vain. Watched, hunted, harassed, always under the threat of a raid, they returned anyway, with idiotic obstinacy, obeying, one could not say what mysterious attraction. So much so that the police had there like an immense mousetrap incessantly set, where their quarry willingly came to be caught. The result of a search was so well foreseen, so certain, that it was in a tone of absolute certainty that the chief of the post shouted to the departing crowd : “I will always prepare the lodgings for our practices. Good hunting and much pleasure! ” This last wish, for example, was pure irony, for the weather was as bad as could be. It had snowed heavily in the preceding days, and the thaw was beginning. Wherever there had been a little traffic, there was half a foot of mud. It was still cold, however, a damp cold that chilled the marrow of the bones. Moreover, the fog was so intense that even if you extended your arm, you couldn’t see your hand. “What a professional dog!” grumbled one of the officers. “Yes,” replied the inspector who was in charge of the patrol, “I think that if you had only thirty thousand francs a year, you would n’t be here.” The laughter that greeted this vulgar joke was less flattery than a tribute to a recognized and established superiority. The inspector was, in fact, one of the most appreciated servants at the Prefecture, and one who had proven himself. His perspicacity was perhaps not very great, but he knew his trade thoroughly and knew its resources, its tricks, and its artifices. Practice had, moreover, given him an imperturbable aplomb, superb self-confidence and a sort of crude diplomacy, playing skill quite well. To these qualities and these faults, he added an incontestable bravery. He put his hand to the collar of the most formidable criminal as calmly as a devout woman dips her finger in a holy water font. He was a man of forty-six, strongly built, with hard features, a terrible mustache, and small gray eyes under bushy eyebrows. His name was Gevrol, but more commonly he was called General. This nickname caressed his vanity, which was not mediocre, and his subordinates were not unaware of it. No doubt he thought that it reflected on his person something of the consideration attached to this rank. “If you are already complaining,” he continued in his deep voice, “what will it be like later? In fact, there was not yet too much to complain about.” The little troop was then going up the road to Choisy: the sidewalks were relatively clean, and the wine merchants’ shops were enough to light the way. For all the shops were open. There is no fog or thaw capable of discouraging the lovers of gaiety. The carnival of the barrier was intoxicated in the cabarets and bustling in the public dances. From the open windows escaped alternately vociferations or bursts of frenzied music. Then, it was a drunkard who passed festooning on the roadway, or a dirty mask who glided like a shameful shadow, along the houses. In front of certain establishments, Gévrol ordered: halt! He whistled in a peculiar way, and almost immediately a man came out. It was an agent arriving at the order. They listened to his report and passed. Little by little, however, they approached the fortifications. The lights were becoming rare and there were large empty spaces between the houses. “Left file, boys!” ordered Gévrol; we will join the road to Ivry and then we will cut the shortest way to reach the rue du Chevaleret. From this point, the expedition became truly arduous. The patrol had just entered a barely marked path, not even named, cut by quagmires, entangled in rubble, and made perilous by fog, mud, and snow. From now on, there was no light, no more taverns; no footsteps, no voices, nothing, solitude, darkness, silence. One would have thought oneself a thousand leagues from Paris, without that deep and continuous noise which rises from the great city like the roar of a torrent from the bottom of an abyss. All the agents had rolled up their trousers above the ankles, and they were advancing slowly, choosing as best they could the places where to set foot, one by one, like Indians on the path to battle. They had just passed the Rue du Château-des-Rentiers, when suddenly a heart-rending cry pierced the air. At that hour, in that place, this cry was so terribly significant, that with a common movement all the men stopped. “Did you hear, General?” one of the officers asked in a low voice. “Yes, they’re certainly cutting each other’s throats near here… but where? Silence and let’s listen. ” Everyone remained motionless, listening intently, holding their breath, and soon a second cry, a howl rather, rang out. “Hey!” cried the inspector of security, “it’s at the Poivrière. ” This bizarre name alone said both the significance of the place it designated and what practices usually frequented it. In the colorful language current around Montparnasse, they say that a drinker is peppered when he has left his reason at the bottom of the pots. Hence the nickname “poivrier robbers,” given to the rogues whose specialty is robbing poor, harmless drunkards. This name, however, awakening no memory in the minds of the officers: “What! added Gévrol, you don’t know the cabaret at Mother Chupin’s, over there, on the right… Gallop, and watch out for the stall tickets! Setting the example, he rushed in the direction indicated, his men followed him, and in less than a minute, they arrived at a sinister-looking hovel, built in the middle of wasteland. It was indeed from this den that the screams had come; they had redoubled and were followed by two gunshots. The house was hermetically sealed, but through heart-shaped openings in the shutters, reddish glimmers filtered in like those of a fire. One of the officers rushed to one of the windows, and, lifting himself up by the strength of his wrists, he tried to see through the cutouts what was happening inside. Gevrol, for his part, ran to the door. “Open up!” he commanded, knocking roughly. There was no response. But the stamping of a fierce struggle, blasphemies, a dull rattle, and at intervals a woman’s sobs were clearly distinguishable . “Horrible!” said the officer, clinging to the shutter, “it’s horrible!” This exclamation decided Gevrol. “In the name of the law!” he shouted a third time. And no one answered, he stepped back, took a step back, and with a blow of his shoulder that had the violence of a battering ram, he threw down the door. Then was explained the accent of terror of the agent who had glued his eye to the cutouts of the shutters. The lower room of the Poivrière presented such a spectacle that all the employees of the security service and Gévrol himself remained rooted to the spot for a moment, frozen with an unspeakable horror. Everything in the tavern betrayed a fierce struggle, one of those savage batteries that too often bloody the dives of the barriers. The candles must have been extinguished at the beginning of the fight, but a large bright fire of fir planks illuminated even the smallest corners. Tables, glasses, bottles, household utensils, stripped stools, everything was overturned, thrown pell-mell, broken, trampled, chopped up. Near the fireplace, across, two men were lying on the floor, on their backs, arms outstretched, motionless. A third lay in the middle of the room. To the right, at the back, on the first steps of a staircase leading to the upper floor, a woman was squatting. She had pulled her apron up over her head and was uttering inarticulate moans. Opposite, in the frame of a wide-open communicating door, a man stood, stiff and pale, with a heavy oak table before him, like a rampart. He was of a certain age, of medium height, and wore a full beard. His costume, which was that of the boat unloaders of the Quai de la Gare, was in tatters and all soiled with mud, wine, and blood. This one was certainly the incident. The expression on his face was atrocious. Furious madness blazed in his eyes, and a convulsive sneer contracted his features. He had two wounds in his neck and cheek that were bleeding profusely. In his right hand, wrapped in a checkered handkerchief, he held a five-shot revolver, the barrel of which he pointed at the officers. “Surrender!” Gevrol shouted to him. The man’s lips moved; but, despite a visible effort, he could not articulate a syllable. “Don’t act smart,” continued the inspector of security, “we are out in force, you are caught; so, lay down your weapons!” “I am innocent,” the man said in a hoarse voice. “Naturally, but that is none of our business. ” “I was attacked, ask that old woman instead; I defended myself, I killed, I was within my rights!” The gesture with which he emphasized these words was so threatening that one of the officers, who had remained half outside, violently pulled Gevrol towards him, saying: “Beware, General!” Beware!… The scoundrel’s revolver has five shots and we only heard two. But the inspector of the Sûreté, impregnable with fear, pushed back his subordinate and advanced again, continuing in the calmest tone: –No nonsense, my boy, believe me, if your case is good, which is possible, after all, don’t spoil it. A frightening indecision was read on the man’s features. He held Gevrol’s life at his fingertips; was he going to pull the trigger? No. He violently threw his weapon to the ground, saying: “Come and get me!” And turning around, he hunched himself up, to rush into the next room, to escape by some exit known to him. Gevrol had guessed this movement. He too leaped forward, arms outstretched, but the table stopped him. “Ah!” he cried, “the wretch is escaping us.” The wretch’s fate was already sealed. While Gevrol was parleying, one of the agents—the one at the window—had turned the house and entered by the back door. When the incident gathered momentum, he rushed at him, grabbed him by the belt, and with surprising vigor and skill , pushed him back. The man tried to struggle, to resist; in vain. He had lost his balance, he staggered and toppled over the table that had protected him, murmuring loud enough for everyone to hear: “Lost! The Prussians are coming.” This simple and decisive maneuver, which ensured victory, must have delighted the inspector of the Sûreté. “Good, my boy,” he said to his agent, “very good!… Ah! You have the vocation, you, and you will go far, if ever an opportunity… ” He broke off. All his people shared his enthusiasm so obviously that jealousy seized him. He saw his prestige diminished and hastened to add: “Your idea had come to me, but I could not communicate it without alerting the scoundrel.” This corrective was superfluous. The agents were now only concerned with the incident. They had surrounded him, and after tying his feet and hands, they tied him tightly to a chair. He let them do it. His furious exaltation was succeeded by that gloomy prostration which follows all exorbitant efforts. His features expressed nothing but a fierce insensitivity, the stupor of a wild beast caught in a trap. Obviously, he resigned himself and gave in. As soon as Gevrol saw that his men had finished their work: “Now,” he commanded, “let us worry about the others, and light my way, for the fire is hardly blazing anymore.” It was with the two individuals stretched out across the door that the inspector of the Sûreté began his examination. He questioned the beating of their hearts; the hearts were no longer beating. He held the glass of his watch close to their lips; the glass remained clear and bright. “Nothing!” he murmured after several experiments, “nothing; they are dead. The mastiff did not miss them.” Let’s leave them in the position they are in until the justice arrives and let’s see the third. The third was still breathing. He was a very young man, wearing the uniform of the line infantry. He was in his undress, unarmed, and his large gray overcoat , half open, revealed his bare chest. They lifted him with a thousand precautions, for he groaned piteously with every movement, and they placed him on his back, his back against the wall.
Then he opened his eyes, and in a faint voice asked for a drink. They offered him a cup of water, he drained it with relish, then he breathed deeply and seemed to regain some strength. “Where are you wounded?” asked Gevrol. “In the head, here, there,” he replied, trying to raise one of his arms, “oh! How I suffer!… The agent who had cut off the retreat of the incident approached, and with a dexterity that an old surgeon would have envied, he felt the gaping wound that the young man had a little above the nape of the neck. “It’s not much,” he pronounced. But there was no mistaking the movement of his lower lip. It was clear that he judged the injury very dangerous, if not fatal. “It will not even be anything,” affirmed Gevrol, “blows to the head, when they do not kill outright, heal within a month. ” The wounded man smiled sadly. “I’ve had my fill,” he murmured. –Bast!… –Oh!… There’s no denying it, I feel it. But I’m not complaining . I only get what I deserve. All the officers, at these words, turned towards the incident. They thought he was going to take advantage of this declaration to renew his protestations of innocence. Their expectation was disappointed: he didn’t move, although he had most certainly heard. –But there you go, continued the wounded man, in a voice that was fading away, that brigand Lacheneur has dragged me away. –Lacheneur?… –Yes, Jean Lacheneur, a former actor, who knew me when I was rich…, because I had a fortune, but I ate it all up, I wanted to have fun… He, knowing I was penniless, came to me, and he promised me enough money to start my old life again… And it’s for having believed him that I’m going to die like a dog, in this dive!… Oh! I want revenge! At this hope, his fists clenched for a last threat. “I want revenge,” he said again. “I know a lot, more than he thinks… I’ll tell everything!…” He had overestimated his strength. Anger had given him a moment of energy, but it was at the cost of the rest of the life that was throbbing within him. When he wanted to resume, he couldn’t. Twice, he opened his mouth; all that came from his throat was a stifled cry of impotent rage. This was the last manifestation of his intelligence. A bloody foam rose to his lips, his eyes rolled back, his body stiffened, and a supreme convulsion brought him face down to the ground. “It’s over,” murmured Gevrol. “Not yet,” replied the young agent whose intervention had been so useful; “but he won’t be ten minutes. Poor devil!… He won’t say anything. ” The inspector of security had straightened up, as calm as if he had been present at the most ordinary scene in the world, and carefully dusted the knees of his trousers. “Bast!…” he replied, “we will know all the same what we have an interest in knowing. This boy is a soldier, and he has the number of his regiment on the buttons of his greatcoat, just like that!” A thin smile creased the lips of the young agent. “I think you are mistaken, General,” he said. –However… –Yes, I know, seeing him in his military uniform, you assumed… Well!… no. This unfortunate man was not a soldier. Do you want immediate proof of that, among ten?… Look if he’s crew-cut, like the orderly? Where have you seen soldiers with hair falling to their shoulders? The objection stopped the general, but he quickly recovered. –Do you think, he said abruptly, that I have my eyes in my pocket? Your remark did not escape me; only, I said to myself: Here’s a fellow who takes advantage of the fact that he’s on leave to do without the hairdresser. –Unless… But Gevrol doesn’t allow interruptions. –Enough talk!… he pronounced. Everything that happened, we’re going to learn. Mother Chupin isn’t dead, she, the hussy! As he spoke, he walked toward the old woman who had remained stubbornly crouching on her stairs. Since the entrance to the patrol, she had neither spoken, nor moved, nor ventured a glance. Only, her moans had not ceased. With a quick gesture, Gevrol tore off the apron she had pulled over her head, and then she appeared as the years, misconduct, poverty, and torrents of brandy and blackcurrant mêle had made her: wrinkled, shriveled, toothless, ragged, with nothing left on her bones but skin, yellower and drier than old parchment. “Come now, get up!” said the inspector. “Ah! your whining doesn’t affect me much. You ought to be whipped for the infamous drugs you put in your drinks, which kindle furious madness in the brains of drunkards.” The old woman looked around the room with her small reddened eyes, and in a tearful tone: “What a misfortune!” she moaned. “What will become of me! Everything is broken, shattered! Here I am ruined.” She seemed only sensitive to the loss of her dishes. “Come now,” Gevrol asked, “how did the battle come about?” “Alas!… I just don’t know. I was up there patching up my son’s clothes when I heard an argument. ” “And afterward? ” “As was only right, I went downstairs, and I saw those three lying there, trying to find reasons for that other one you tied up, the poor innocent. For he is innocent, as I am an honest woman. If my son Polyte had been there, he would have put himself between them; but I, a widow, what could I do? I shouted to the guard with all my might…” She sat down again, at this testimony, thinking she had said enough. But Gevrol brutally forced her to get up. “Oh!” We haven’t finished, he said, I want other details. “What, dear Mr. Gevrol, since I haven’t seen anything.” Anger was beginning to redden the inspector’s masterful ears. “What would you say, old woman,” he said, “if I arrested you? ” “It would be a great injustice. ” “That’s what will happen, however, if you persist in remaining silent. I have an idea that a fortnight at Saint-Lazare would nicely loosen your tongue.” This name produced the effect of an electric battery on the widow Chupin. She suddenly abandoned her hypocritical lamentations, straightened up, proudly planted her fists on her hips, and began to heap invective on Gevrol and his agents, accusing them of having a grudge against her family, for they had already arrested her son, an excellent subject, swearing that, moreover, she did not fear prison, and that she would even be very happy to end her days there, safe from want. For a moment, the general tried to silence the dreadful shrew, but he recognized that he was not strong enough; besides, all his agents were laughing. He therefore turned his back on her, and, advancing towards the “You, at least,” he said, “you will not refuse us explanations.” The man hesitated for a moment. “I have told you,” he finally replied, “all that I had to say to you.” I have assured you that I am innocent, and a man ready to die, struck by my hand, and this old woman have confirmed my statement. What more do you want? When the judge questions me, I will perhaps answer; until then, do not expect a word. It was easy to see that the man’s determination was irrevocable, and it should not surprise an old inspector of security. Very often criminals, at the first moment, oppose all questions with the most absolute silence. These are the experienced, the skillful, those who prepare sleepless nights for the investigating judges. They have learned, these ones, that a system of defense cannot be improvised, that it is on the contrary a work of patience and meditation, where everything must be held together and linked logically. And knowing what terrible impact a seemingly insignificant reply, torn from the confusion of the flagrant offense, can have during the investigation , he kept silent, gaining time. However, Gévrol was perhaps going to insist, when he was told that the soldier had just breathed his last. “Since that’s the way it is, my children,” he said, “two of you will stay here, and I will go with the others. I will go and wake the police commissioner, and I will hand the matter over to him; he will arrange it, and according to what he decides, we will act. My responsibility, in any case, will be covered. So, untie the legs of our practice and tie Mother Chupin’s hands a little, we will drop them off at the station on the way. ” All the agents hastened to obey, with the exception of the youngest among them, the one who had earned the General’s praise. He approached his chief, and signaling that he had something to say to him, he led him outside. When they were a few steps from the house: “What do you want from me?” asked Gevrol. “I would like to know, General, what you think of this affair. ” “I think, my boy, that four scoundrels met in this cut-throat place. They got into a quarrel, and the words turned to blows. One of them had a revolver, he killed the others. It’s as simple as that. According to his background and also according to the backgrounds of the victims, the murderer will be judged. Perhaps society owes him thanks… ” “And you judge the searches, the investigations useless… ” “Absolutely useless. ” The young agent seemed to collect himself. “It seems to me, General,” he continued, “that this affair is not perfectly clear. Have you studied the incident, examined his demeanor, observed his expression?… Have you surprised as I did… ” “And then? ” “Well!… it seems to me, perhaps I am mistaken; but finally I believe that appearances deceive us. Yes, I smell something… –Well?… And how do you explain that? –How do you explain the scent of the hunting dog? Gévrol, champion of the positivist police, shrugged his shoulders prodigiously. –In a word, he said, you sense a melodrama here… a meeting of great lords in disguise, at the Poivrière, at Chupin’s… as at the Ambigu… Search, my boy, search, I allow you… –What!… you allow… –That is to say, I order… You will stay here with whichever of your comrades you choose… And if you find something that I have not seen, I allow you to buy me a pair of glasses. Chapter 2. The agent to whom Gévrol was giving information he considered useless was a beginner in the game. His name was Lecoq. He was a boy of twenty-five or twenty-six, almost beardless, pale, with a red lip and abundant wavy black hair. He was a little short, but well-built, and his slightest movements betrayed an uncommon vigor. In him, moreover, there was nothing remarkable, except the eye, which at his will, sparkled or went out like the fire of an eclipsing lighthouse, and the nose, whose broad, fleshy wings had a surprising mobility. Son of a rich and honorable family of Normandy, Lecoq had received a good and solid education. He was beginning his law studies in Paris, when in the same week, one after the other, he learned that his father, completely ruined, had just died, and that his mother had survived him only a few hours. From then on he was alone in the world, without resources…, and he had to live. He was able to appreciate his true worth; it was nothing. The University, with the bachelor’s degree, does not grant a certificate of life annuities. This is a shortcoming. What use was his high school knowledge to the orphan? He envied the fate of those who, having a job at their fingertips, can boldly walk into the house of the first employer who comes along and say: I would like some work. They work and eat. He asked for bread from all the trades that are the lot of the down-and-outs. Thankless trades!… There are a hundred thousand down-and-outs in Paris. No matter!… He showed energy. He gave lessons and copied roles for a lawyer. One day, he started out in something new; the following month, he was going to offer bookstore nightingales at home. He was an ad broker, a study master, an insurance finder, a commission agent…. Finally, he had obtained employment with an astronomer whose name is an authority, Baron Moser. He spent his days crunching dizzying sums, at a rate of one hundred francs a month. But discouragement was setting in. After five years, he found himself at the same point. He was seized with fits of rage when he reckoned up the dashed hopes, the vain attempts, the affronts endured. The past had been sad, the present was almost intolerable, the future threatened to be dreadful. Condemned to perpetual deprivation, he tried at least to escape the disgusts of reality by taking refuge in dreams. Alone in his hovel, after a sickening labor, gripped by the thousand desires of youth, he thought of ways to enrich himself suddenly , from evening to the next. On this slope, his imagination was to go far. He had not been slow to admit the worst expedients. But as he abandoned himself to his chimeras, he discovered within himself singular faculties of invention and, as it were, an instinct for evil. The most audacious thefts, reputed to be the most skillful, were, in his judgment, only remarkable clumsiness. He said to himself that if he wanted to, him!… And then he sought, and he found strange combinations, which assured success and mathematically guaranteed impunity. Soon, it became a mania, a delirium for him . To the point that this admirably honest boy spent his life perpetrating, by thought, the most abominable misdeeds. So much so, that he himself was frightened by this game. It only took an hour of madness to pass from idea to fact, from theory to practice. Then, as happens to all monomaniacs, the hour came when the bizarre conceptions that filled his brain overflowed. One day, he could not refrain from explaining to his boss a little plan that he had conceived and matured, and which would have allowed him to rake in five or six hundred thousand francs in the markets of London and Paris. Two letters and a telegraph dispatch, and the trick was done. And impossible to fail, and not a suspicion to fear. The astronomer, stupefied by the simplicity of the means, admired it. But, on reflection, he judged it unwise to keep such an ingenious secretary near him. That is why, the next day, he gave him a month’s salary and dismissed him, saying: “When one has your talents and is poor, one becomes a famous thief or an illustrious policeman. Choose.” Lecoq withdrew in confusion, but the astronomer’s words must have been germinating in his mind. “In fact,” he said to himself, “why not follow good advice?” The police did not inspire any repugnance in him, far from it. He had often admired this mysterious power whose will is Jerusalem Street and whose hand is everywhere; whom one neither sees nor hears, and who nevertheless hears and sees everything. He was seduced by the prospect of being the instrument of this small-scale Providence. He glimpsed a useful and honorable use of the particular genius that had been bestowed upon him, a life of emotions and passionate struggles, unheard-of adventures, and at the end, celebrity. In short, his vocation won out. So much so that the following week, thanks to a letter of recommendation from Baron Moser, he was admitted to the Prefecture as an auxiliary in the security service. A rather cruel disenchantment awaited him at the start. He had seen the results, not the means. His surprise was that of a naive theater-goer entering the wings for the first time, and seeing up close the sets and the tricks that, from a distance, dazzle. But he had the enthusiasm and zeal of a man who feels he is on his way. He persevered, veiling his desire to succeed with false modesty, trusting that circumstances would sooner or later reveal his superiority. Well!… the opportunity he had so ardently desired, that he had been watching for months, he had just, he believed, found at the Poivrière. While he was hanging from the window, he saw, in the flashes of his ambition, the path to success. At first it was only a presentiment. It soon became a presumption, then a conviction based on positive facts which had escaped everyone, but which he had collected and noted. Fortune was deciding in his favor; he recognized it when he saw Gevrol neglect even the most elementary formalities, when he heard him declare in a peremptory tone that this triple incident to one of those fierce quarrels so frequent among barrier prowlers . –Go, he thought, walk, lock yourself in; believe appearances, since you can’t discover anything beyond them. I will show you that my young theory is worth a little more than your old practice. The inspector’s carelessness authorized Lecoq to take up the information in underhand, secretly, for his own account. He did not want to act in this way. By warning his superior before attempting anything, he was going to meet an accusation of ambition or bad camaraderie. These are serious accusations, in a profession where rivalries of self-esteem have unheard-of violence, where wounded vanities can take revenge by all sorts of nasty tricks or petty betrayals. He therefore spoke… enough to be able to say in case of success: Hey! I warned you!… little enough not to shed light on the darkness of Gévrol. The permission he obtained was a first triumph, and of the best omen; but he knew how to dissemble, and it was in the most detached tone that he asked one of his colleagues to stay with him. Then, while the others were preparing to leave, he sat on the corner of a table, apparently a stranger to all that was happening, not daring to raise his head for fear of betraying his joy, for fear of seeing his plans and hopes revealed in his eyes. Inwardly, he was consumed with impatience. If the incident lent itself willingly to the precautions to be taken to prevent his escape, it had been necessary to put four people together to tie the wrists of the widow Chupin, who was struggling and screaming as if she had been burned alive. “They won’t finish!” Lecoq said to himself. They finished, however. Gevrol gave the order to leave and was the last to leave after giving his subordinate a mocking farewell. He didn’t reply. He stepped to the threshold of the door to make sure the patrol was really leaving. He shuddered at the thought that Gevrol might think again, change his mind , and return to take up the matter, as was his right. His anxieties were in vain. Little by little the men’s footsteps died away, the cries of the widow Chupin were lost in the night. Nothing more was heard . Then Lecoq went back inside. He no longer had to hide his joy; his eyes sparkled. Like a conqueror taking possession of an empire, he stamped his foot on the ground, crying: “Now, it’s up to us!” Chapter 3. Authorized by Gevrol to choose the agent who would remain with him at the Poivrière, Lecoq had addressed himself to the one he considered the least intelligent. This was not, on his part, a fear of having to share the benefits of a success, but a necessity to keep on hand an aide whom he could, if necessary, make obey. He was a good man of fifty, who, after a leave in the cavalry, had entered the Prefecture. From the modest post he occupied, he had seen many prefects succeed one another, and a penal colony would have been populated, just with the criminals he had arrested with his own hand. He was neither stronger nor more zealous. When he was given an order, he executed it militarily, as he understood it. If he misunderstood it, so much the worse! He went about his business blindly, like an old horse going around a merry-go-round. When he had a moment of freedom, and some money, he drank. He went through life between two wines, without, however, ever going beyond a certain state of semi-lucidity. His name had once been known, then forgotten. He was called Father Absinthe. As expected, he noticed neither the enthusiasm nor the triumphant accent of his young companion. “My goodness!” he said to him, as soon as they were alone, “you had a proud idea in keeping me here, and I thank you for it. While the comrades spend the night wading in the snow, I’m going to make a good sum. He was there, in a dive that sweated blood, where crime throbbed, facing the still warm corpses of three murdered men, and he was talking about sleeping. In fact, what did it matter to him! He had seen so many such scenes in his life ! Doesn’t habit inevitably lead to professional indifference, a prodigious phenomenon that gives the soldier composure in the midst of a melee, and the surgeon impassivity when the patient screams and writhes under his scalpel. “I went up there to take a look,” the old man continued, ” I saw a bed, each of us will mount guard in turn…” With an imperious gesture, Lecoq interrupted him. “Strike that off your papers, Father Absinthe,” he declared. “We are not here to loiter, but to begin the investigation, to carry out the most meticulous research and try to gather clues… In a few hours the police commissioner, the doctor, the examining magistrate will arrive… I want to have a report to present to them. ” This proposition seemed to revolt the old agent. “Eh! What’s the use!” he cried. “I know the General. When he goes to look for the commissioner, as he did this evening, it’s because he’s sure there’s nothing to be done. Do you think you see something where he saw nothing?” “I think Gevrol can be mistaken like everyone else. I believe he trusted too lightly what seemed obvious to him; I would swear that this affair is not what it appears to be; I am sure that, if you wish, we will discover what is hidden behind appearances.” As great as the young policeman’s vehemence was, it affected the old man so little that he yawned until his jaw dropped, saying: “Perhaps you’re right, but I’m going up to throw myself on the bed. Do n’t let that stop you from looking; if you find something, you’ll wake me up. ” Lecoq showed no sign of impatience, and in fact, he wasn’t growing impatient. It was a test he was attempting. “You’ll give me a moment,” he continued. “In five minutes, watch in hand, I’ll take it upon myself to show you the mystery I suspect. ” “Five minutes, fine. ” “Besides, you’re free, Papa. Only, it’s clear that, if I act alone, I’ll pocket alone the gratification that a discovery would infallibly bring. ” At this word gratification, the old policeman pricked up his ears. He had the dazzling vision of an infinite number of bottles of the green liqueur whose name he bore. “Persuade me then,” he said, sitting down on a stool he had raised.
Lecoq remained standing in front of him, facing him. “To begin with,” he asked, “what, in your opinion, is this individual we arrested? ” “A boat unloader, probably, or a pest. ” “That is to say, a man belonging to the humblest conditions of society, having consequently received no education. ” “Exactly. It was with his companion’s eyes fixed on his that Lecoq spoke. He mistrusted himself like all people of real merit, and he told himself that if he succeeded in making his convictions penetrate the obtuse mind of this stubborn old man, he would be assured of their correctness. “Well!” he continued, “what will you say if I prove to you that this individual has received a distinguished, even refined , education?” “I will say that it is quite extraordinary, I will say… but stupid as I am, you will never prove that to me. ” “Yes, and very easily. Do you remember the words he said as he fell, when I pushed him? ” “I still have them in my ear. He said: ‘It’s the Prussians coming!
‘” “Do you have any idea what he meant? ” “What a question!… I understand perfectly well that he doesn’t like the Prussians and that he thought he was addressing a serious insult to us. ” Lecoq was waiting for this answer. “Well!” Father Absinthe,” he declared gravely, “you are not not, oh! but there, not at all. And the proof that this man has an education far superior to his apparent condition is that you, an old rogue, you have grasped neither his intention nor his thought. It was this sentence which was for me the ray of light. The physiognomy of Father Absinthe expressed that strange and comic perplexity of the man who, smelling a mystification, wonders whether he should laugh or be angry. On reflection, he became angry. “You are a little young,” he began, “to pose an old man like me. I don’t much like jokers…. ” “Just a moment!” interrupted Lecoq, “let me explain. You must have heard of a terrible battle which was one of the most dreadful disasters in France, the Battle of Waterloo?…. ” “I don’t see what connection it has….” “Answer still.” “Then… yes! “Good!” In that case, Papa, you must know that the victory initially leaned towards France. The English were beginning to weaken, and the Emperor was already crying out: “We have them!” when, suddenly, on the right, a little behind, troops were discovered advancing. It was the Prussian army. The battle of Waterloo was lost! In his life, the worthy Absinthe had never made such great efforts at understanding. They were not in vain, for he half rose to his feet, and in a tone that made Archimedes cry out: “I’ve found it!” he exclaimed: “I’m there!” The man’s words were an allusion. “You said so,” Lecoq approved. “But I haven’t finished.” If the Emperor was dismayed by the appearance of the Prussians, it was because, on that very side, he was expecting one of his generals, Grouchy, with 35,000 soldiers. Therefore, if the man’s allusion is exact and complete, he was counting not on an enemy, who had just turned his position, but on friends… Conclude. Strongly gripped, if not convinced, the good man opened his eyes extraordinarily wide, his eyes, the moment before heavy with sleep. “Cristi!…” he murmured, “you tell us that in such a tone!… But, in fact, I remember, you must have seen something through the hole in the shutter.” The young policeman shook his head negatively. “On my honor,” he declared, “I saw nothing but the struggle between the incident and this poor devil dressed as a soldier. The sentence alone aroused my attention.” “Prodigious!” repeated the old agent, “incredible, astonishing!” ” I will add that reflection has confirmed my suspicions. I wondered , for example, why this man, instead of fleeing, had waited for us and remained there, at this door, negotiating…” With a leap, Father Absinthe was on his feet. “Why?” he interrupted. “Because he has accomplices and he wanted to give them time to escape. Ah!… I understand everything.” A smile of triumph wandered across Lecoq’s lips. “That’s what I said to myself,” he continued. “And now it’s easy to verify our suspicions. There’s snow outside, isn’t there?” That was all it took. The old agent grabbed a light, and followed by his companion, he ran to the back door of the house which opened onto a small garden. In this sheltered spot, the thaw was late, and on the white carpet of snow, numerous footprints appeared like so many black spots. Without hesitation, Lecoq had thrown himself to his knees to examine them closely; he got up almost immediately. “Those were not men’s feet,” he said, “that left those prints!… There were women!… Chapter 4. Stubborn people like Father Absinthe, always on their guard against the opinion of others, are precisely those who, later on, fall madly in love with them. When an idea has finally penetrated their empty brains, it settles there masterfully, fills them and develops until it ravages them. From now on, much more than his young companion, the veteran of the rue de Jerusalem was convinced, was certain that the clever Gevrol had been mistaken, and he laughed at the mistake. Hearing Lecoq affirm that women had witnessed the horrible scene at the Poivrière, his joy knew no bounds. “Good business!” he cried, “excellent business!” And remembering a well-worn and banal maxim already in Cicero’s time, he added in a sententious tone: “He who holds the woman, holds the cause!” Lecoq did not deign to reply. He remained on the threshold of the door, his back against the doorframe, his hand on his forehead, as motionless as a statue. The discovery he had just made, which delighted Father Absinthe, dismayed him. It was the annihilation of his hopes, the collapse of the ingenious scaffolding built by his imagination on a single word. No more mystery, therefore no more triumphant investigation, no more celebrity gained overnight by a brilliant stroke! The presence of two women in this cut-throat situation explained everything in the most natural and vulgar way. It explained the struggle, the testimony of the widow Chupin, the declaration of the false dying soldier. The attitude of the incident became quite simple. He had stayed to cover the retreat of two women; he had given himself up so as not to let them be taken, an act of chivalrous gallantry, so well in the French character, that the saddest scoundrels of the barriers are accustomed to it. There remained this so unexpected allusion to the Battle of Waterloo. But what did it prove now? Nothing. Who knows where an unworthy passion can drag a well- born man down!… The carnival justified all the disguises…. But while Lecoq turned over and over all these probabilities in his mind, Father Absinthe grew impatient. “Are we going to stay planted here to grow green again?” he said. “Are we stopping just when our investigation is yielding such brilliant results?… Brilliant results!…” This word hurt the young policeman as much as the bitterest irony. “Ah! Leave me alone!” he said abruptly, “and above all, don’t go into the garden, you’ll spoil the footprints.” The old man swore, then fell silent. He was under the irresistible influence of a superior intelligence, of an energetic will. Lecoq had resumed the thread of his deductions. –This is probably how things happened, he thought,: The incident, leaving the Arc-en-Ciel ball, which is over there, near the fortifications, arrives here with two women… He finds three drinkers there who are teasing him or who are being too gallant… He gets angry… The others threaten him, he is alone against three, he is armed, he loses his head and opens fire… He broke off, and after a moment added aloud: –But is it really the incident that brought the women? If it is judged, all the effort of the debate will be focused on this point… We can try to clarify it. He immediately crossed the cabaret, still having his old colleague at his heels, and began to examine the area around the door broken down by Gevrol. It was a waste of time! There was very little snow left, and so many people had passed and trampled that nothing could be seen. What a disappointment after such a long hope!… Lecoq was almost crying with rage. He saw this capricious opportunity so feverishly watched being postponed indefinitely. He seemed to hear Gevrol’s coarse sarcasm. “Come now!” he murmured, low enough not to be heard, “one must know how to admit defeat. The General was right and I am only a fool. ” He was so positively convinced that the most that could be done was to establish the circumstances of a common crime that he wondered if it would not be wise to give up all investigation and go home for a nap while waiting for the police commissioner. But that was no longer Father Absinthe’s opinion. The old man, who was a thousand miles away from his companion’s reflections, could not explain his inaction and could no longer keep still. “Well!… boy,” he said, “are you becoming mentally ill? Enough time has been wasted, it seems to me. Justice will arrive in a few hours; what report shall we present?… Me first, if you feel like loitering, I act alone… ” Saddened as he was, the young policeman could not help smiling. He recognized his exhortations of the moment before. It was the old man who was becoming the intrepid one. “So let’s get to work!” he sighed, like a man who, foreseeing failure, at least wants to have nothing to reproach himself for. Only, it was difficult to follow footprints in the open air, at night, by the flickering light of a candle that the lightest breath would extinguish. “It is impossible,” said Lecoq, “that there is not a lantern in this hovel. The trick is to get your hands on it.” They poked around, and, indeed, on the first floor, in Widow Chupin’s own room, they discovered a fully furnished lantern, so small and so plain that it was certainly not intended for honest use. “A real thief’s tool,” said Father Absinthe with a laugh. The tool was convenient, in any case, the two agents recognized it when, back in the garden, they methodically recommenced their investigations. They advanced a little with infinite caution. The old agent, standing, directed the light of the lantern to the right place, and Lecoq, on his knees, studied the prints with the attention of a palmist trying to read the future in the hand of a rich client. A new examination assured Lecoq that he had seen correctly. It was obvious that two women had left the Poivrière by this exit. They had run out, this certainty resulted from the width of their strides, and also from the arrangement of their footprints. The difference in the traces left by the two fugitives was so remarkable, moreover, that it leaped out at Father Absinthe. “Cristi!” he murmured, “one of these spunky women can boast of having a pretty foot at the end of her leg.” He was right. One of the tracks betrayed a cute, coquettish, narrow foot, imprisoned in elegant ankle boots, high heels, thin soles, excessively arched. The other denounced a person of any type of body, foot, short, which widened towards the end, shod in solid, very flat shoes. This circumstance was very little. It was enough to restore Lecoq’s hopes, so readily does a man welcome the presumptions that flatter his desires. Trembling with anxiety, he dragged himself across the snow for a meter; to analyze other vestiges, he bent down, and immediately let out the most eloquent exclamation. “What is it?” the old policeman asked quickly, “what did you see?” “See for yourself, Papa; here, there…” The old man bent down, and his surprise was so great that he almost dropped his lantern. “Oh!” he said in a strangled voice, “a man’s step!” ” Right. And the fellow had masterful boots. What a print, eh! How clear, how pure!… One can count the nails.” The worthy Father Absinthe scratched his ear furiously, which was his way of stimulating his lazy intelligence. “But it seems to me,” he ventured at last, “that the individual was not leaving this unfortunate tavern. ” “Of course!… the direction of the foot says it all. No, he was not leaving it , he was going there. Only, he did not go beyond this place where we are. He was advancing on tiptoe, his neck stretched out, listening, when, having arrived here, he heard a noise… fear seized him , he fled. ” “Or else, boy, the women were leaving as he arrived, and then… ” “No. The women were outside the garden when he entered it.” The assertion, for once, seemed too bold to the old man. “That,” he said, “one can’t know. ” “I do know, however, and in the most positive way. You doubt, Papa!… It’s because your eyes are getting old. Bring your lantern a little closer , and you will see that there… yes, there you are, our man placed his big boot right on one of the prints of the woman with the small foot, and erased it three-quarters.” This irrefutable material testimony astounded the old policeman. “Now,” continued Lecoq, “is this footstep really that of the accomplice the incident was hoping for?… Could it not be that of some prowler in a vacant lot attracted by the shots?… That is what we must know… and we shall know it.” Come on!… A fence of crossed slats, a little over a meter high, quite similar to those that protect access to railway lines, separated the Widow Chupin’s little garden from the vacant lots. When Lecoq had circled the cabaret to surround the incident, he had come up against this barrier, and, trembling at the thought of arriving too late, he had crossed it, to the great detriment of his trousers, without even asking himself if there was a way out. There was one. A light gate of slats, like the rest, turning on wire hinges, held by a wooden peg , allowed entry and exit from this side. Well! it was straight to this gate that the footsteps marked on the snow led the two security agents. This peculiarity must have struck the young policeman. He stopped short. “Oh!” he murmured as if in private. “These two women were not coming to the Poivrière this evening for the first time. ” “Do you think so, boy?” Father Absinthe asked. “I would almost affirm it. How, without the habit of the people in this den, could one suspect the existence of this exit? Can one see it on this dark night, with this thick fog? No, for I, who, without boasting, have good eyesight, I have not seen it… ” “That’s true!” “The two women came there, however, without hesitation, without fumbling, in a direct line; and note that they had to cross the garden diagonally. The veteran would have given anything to have a small objection to present, the misfortune is that he did not find one. ” “By my faith!” he said, “you have a strange way of proceeding.” You’re only a conscript, I’m an old hand, I’ve been to more investigations in my life than you have years, and I’ve never seen… “Bast!” interrupted Lecoq, “you’ll see many more. For example, I can tell you, to begin with, that if the women knew the exact location of the gate, the man only knew it by hearsay… “Oh! Now! That’s demonstrable, Papa. Study the fellow’s footprints, and you who are clever, you will recognize that on his way there he deviated devilishly. He was so unsure of his business that, to find the opening, he was obliged to look for it with his hands outstretched… and his fingers left traces on the thin layer of snow covering the fence. The old man would not have been sorry to see for himself, as he said, but Lecoq was in a hurry. “On the way, on the way!” he said, “you will verify my assertions another time…” They then left the little garden and followed the footprints that led back towards the outer boulevards, pressing, however, a little to the right in the direction of the Rue du Patay. There was no need for sustained attention. No one, except the fugitives, had ventured into these deserted parts since the last snowfall. A child would have followed the path, so clear and distinct was it. Four very different footprints formed the trail: two were those of the women; the other two, one on the outward journey, the other on the return, had been left by the man. On several occasions, the latter had set foot right in the footsteps of the two women, half erasing them, and thus there could be no doubt as to the precise moment of the evening when he had come to spy. About a hundred meters from the Poivrière, Lecoq abruptly seized the arm of his old colleague. “Halt!” he ordered, “we are approaching the right place, I see positive signs.” The place was an abandoned building site, or rather the storeroom of a building contractor. There were deposited there, according to the whim of the carters, a quantity of enormous blocks of stone, some worked, others rough, and a good number of large pieces of roughly hewn wood. In front of one of these planks, whose surface had been wiped clean, all the prints met, mingled and merged. “Here,” said the young policeman, “our fugitives met the man and held a council with him. One of them, the one with such small feet, sat down. ” “That’s what we’re going to verify more fully,” said Father Absinthe knowingly. But his companion cut short these attempts at verification. “You, old man,” he said, “will do me the kindness of keeping quiet; pass me the lantern and don’t move… ” Lecoq’s modest tone had suddenly become so imperious that the old man didn’t dare resist him. Like the soldier on fixed command, he remained planted on his legs, motionless, mute, sheepish, following his colleague’s movements with a curious and bewildered eye . Free to move, master of maneuvering the light according to the speed of his ideas, the young policeman explored the surroundings within a fairly wide radius. Less anxious, less restless, less agile, is the bloodhound that searches. He went, came, turned, moved away, came back again, running or stopping for no apparent reason; he felt, he scrutinized, he questioned everything: the ground, the woods, the stones and even the smallest objects; sometimes standing, most often on his knees, sometimes flat on his stomach, his face so close to the ground that his breath must have melted the snow. He had taken a meter from his pocket, and he used it with the agility of a surveyor, he measured, measured, measured…. And all these movements he accompanied with bizarre gestures like those of a mentally ill person, interspersing them with curses or little laughs, exclamations of vexation or pleasure. Finally, after a quarter of an hour of this strange exercise, he returned to Father Absinthe, placed his lantern on the beam, wiped his hands on his handkerchief and said: “Now I know everything.” –Oh!… that’s perhaps a lot. –When I say everything, I mean everything connected with that episode of the drama which over there, at Widow Chupin’s, ended in blood. This wasteland, covered with snow, is like an immense blank page on which the people we are looking for have written, not only their movements and their steps, but also their secret thoughts, the hopes and anxieties which agitated them. What do these fleeting prints tell you, Papa? Nothing. For me, they live like those who left them, they throb, they speak, they accuse!… To himself, the old police officer said to himself: –Certainly, this boy is intelligent; he has means, that is incontestable, only he is mad. –So here, continued Lecoq, is the scene I read. While the incident was going to the Poivrière, with the two women, his companion, I will call him his accomplice, came to wait for him here. He is a man of a certain age, of tall stature, – he is at least six feet tall, – wearing a soft cap, dressed in a brown overcoat of fleecy cloth, very probably married, because he wears a wedding ring on the little finger of his right hand…. The desperate gestures of his old colleague forced him to stop. This description of an individual whose existence had only just been demonstrated, these precise details given in a tone of absolute certainty, overturned all of Father Absinthe’s ideas and renewed his perplexities. “It’s not right,” he growled, “no, it’s not tactful. You talk to me about gratification, I take the thing seriously, I listen to you, I obey you in everything… and now you’re making fun of me. We find something, and instead of moving forward, you stop telling jokes… ” “No,” replied the young policeman, “I’m not making fun and I haven’t told you anything yet of which I’m not materially sure, nothing that isn’t the strict and indisputable truth.” “And you would like me to believe…. ” “Don’t worry, Papa, I won’t violate your convictions. When I’ve told you my means of investigation, you’ll laugh at the simplicity of what, at this moment, seems incomprehensible to you. ” “Go on,” said the old man in a resigned tone. “We were at the moment, old man, when the accomplice was standing guard here, and time dragged on. To distract his impatience, he paced up and down this piece of wood, and from time to time he would pause his monotonous stroll to listen. Hearing nothing, he stamped his foot, no doubt saying to himself: What the devil is happening to that other guy over there!… He had made about thirty turns, I counted them, when a dull noise broke the silence… the two women were arriving. At Lecoq’s story, all the diverse feelings that make up the pleasure of a child listening to a fairy tale—doubt, faith, anxiety, hope—collided and jumbled in Father Absinthe’s mind. What to believe, what to reject? He didn’t know. How could one discern the false from the true, among all these equally peremptory assertions? On the other hand, the young policeman’s gravity, which was certainly not feigned, removed any idea of a joke. Then curiosity spurred him on. “So here we are at the women,” he said. “My God, yes,” replied Lecoq; “only here certainty ceases; no more proof, but only presumptions. I have every reason to believe that our fugitives left the tavern as soon as the fight began, before the shouts that brought us running. Who are they? I can only conjecture.” I suspect, however, that they are not of equal standing. I would readily think that one is the mistress and the other the servant. “It is a fact,” ventured the old agent, “that the difference in their feet and shoes is considerable.” This ingenious observation had the gift of wringing a smile from the young policeman’s preoccupations. “This difference,” he said seriously, “is something, but it is not it which has determined my opinion. If the greater or lesser perfection of extremities governed social conditions, many mistresses would be servants. What strikes me is this: When these two unfortunate women leave Chupin’s house in terror, the woman with the small foot leaps into the garden, she runs ahead, she drags the other along, she keeps her distance. The horror of the situation, the infamy of the place, the terror of scandal, the idea of a situation to be saved, give her a marvelous energy. But her effort, as always happens to delicate and nervous women, lasts only a few seconds. She is not halfway from here to the Pepper Pot when her momentum slows, her legs give way. Ten steps further, she staggers and stumbles. A few more steps, she collapses so much that her skirts press on the snow and trace a slight circle. Then the woman with the flat shoes intervenes. She seizes her companion by the waist, she helps her,–and their footprints merge–then Seeing her decidedly close to fainting, she lifts her in her strong arms and carries her—and the imprint of the woman with the small foot ceases…. Was Lecoq inventing for pleasure, was this scene only a play of his imagination? Was he feigning that absolute accent which gives deep and sincere conviction , and which makes, so to speak, reality come alive? Father Absinthe retained the shadow of a doubt, but he glimpsed an infallible way of putting an end to his suspicions. He nimbly seized the lantern and ran to study these prints which he had looked at, which he had not been able to see, which had been silent for him, and which had revealed their secret to another. He had to surrender. Everything that Lecoq had announced, he found again, he recognized the confused steps, the circle of petticoats, the gap in the elegant prints. On his return, his countenance alone betrayed a respectfully astonished admiration, and it was with a very palpable shade of confusion that he said: “You shouldn’t hold it against an old-timer, who is a bit like Saint Thomas… I’ve had a glimpse, and I’d like to know what happened next.” Certainly, the young policeman was far from holding it against him for his incredulity. “Then,” he continued, “the accomplice who had heard the fugitives coming ran to meet them and helped the woman with the large foot to carry her companion. The latter was feeling decidedly unwell. The accomplice immediately took off his cap and used it to dust off the snow on the plank. Then, not judging the place dry enough, he wiped it with the hem of his frock coat. Is this care pure gallantry or the usual thoughtfulness of a subordinate? I wondered. What is positive is that while the woman with the small foot was regaining her senses, half stretched out on this plank, the other was leading the accomplice five or six steps to the left, to this enormous block. There, she spoke to him, and while listening to her, the man, mechanically, placed his hand on the snow-covered block, leaving a marvelously clear imprint… then, as the conversation continued, he pressed his elbow on the snow…. Like all people of limited intelligence, Father Absinthe was to pass quickly from an idiotic distrust to an absurd confidence. He could believe everything from now on, for the same reason that at first he had believed nothing. Without any notion of the limits of human deduction and penetration , he saw no limits to the conjectural genius of his companion. It was therefore with the best faith in the world that he asked him: “And what did the accomplice and the woman with the flat shoes say?” If Lecoq smiled at this naivety, the other had no idea. “It’s rather difficult for me to answer,” he said; “I believe, however, that the woman was explaining to the man the immensity and imminence of his companion’s danger, and that they were both seeking a way to ward it off. Perhaps she was reporting orders given by the incident. The positive thing is that she ended by asking the accomplice to run to the Poivrière to try to surprise what was happening there. And he ran there, since his outward trail started from that block of stone. ” “And to think,” cried the old agent, “that we were in the cabaret at that moment!… One word from Gévrol and we’d have nabbed the whole gang. What bad luck and what misfortune!… ” Lecoq’s disinterestedness did not extend to sharing his colleague’s regrets . On the contrary, he blessed Gevrol’s error. Was it not to her that he owed the information about this affair, which he increasingly considered mysterious, and which he nevertheless hoped to penetrate? “In the end,” he continued, “the accomplice does not take long to reappear, he saw the scene, he was afraid, he hurried!… He trembles lest the idea occur to the agents he saw to scour the vacant lots. It is To the woman with small feet he is addressing, he demonstrates the necessity of flight, and that every minute lost can become fatal. At his voice, she gathers all her energy, she gets up and walks away arm in arm with her companion. Did the man show them the route to follow, did they know it? We will find out later. What is certain is that he accompanied them at some distance to watch over them. But above this duty to protect these two women, he has a more sacred one, that of rescuing his accomplice if he can. So he turns back, goes back this way, and here is his last trail which goes away in the direction of the rue du Château-des-Rentiers. He wants to know what will become of the incident, he will place himself in its path…. Like the dilettante who knows how to wait, to applaud, for the end of the piece which transports him, Father Absinthe had been able to contain his admiration. It was only when he saw that the young policeman had finished that he gave free rein to his enthusiasm. “That’s an investigation!” he cried. “And they say Gevrol is strong. Let him come! Look, do you want me to tell you? Well! Compared to you, the General is only from Saint-Jean. ” Certainly the flattery was crude, but its sincerity was not in doubt. Besides, it was the first time that this dew of praise had fallen on Lecoq’s vanity: it made it bloom. “Bast!” he replied in a modest tone, “you are too indulgent, papa. In short, what have I done that is so strong? I told you that the man was of a certain age… it was not difficult after having examined his heavy and dragging step. I fixed his height for you, the beautiful malice!… When I noticed that he had leaned on the block of stone which is there, to the left, I measured the aforementioned block. It is one meter sixty-seven, so the man who could have rested his elbow on it is at least one meter eighty. The imprint of his hand proved to me that I was not mistaken. Seeing that the snow which covered the plank had been removed, I wondered with what; I thought that it could be with a cap, and a mark left by the visor proved to me that I was not mistaken. Finally, if I knew what color his overcoat is, and what material, it is because when he wiped the damp wood, splinters of wood retained these small flakes of brown wool which I found and which will appear in the evidence… What is all that? Nothing. We have barely got the first elements of the case… We have the thread, it is a question of going to the end… Onward then! The old policeman was electrified, and like an echo, he repeated: –Onward!!! Chapter 5. That night the vagabonds who had taken refuge in the vicinity of the Poivrière slept little, and then only a painful sleep, interrupted by jolts, troubled by the dreadful nightmare of a police raid. Awakened by the detonations of the weapon of the incident, believing it to be some collision between security agents and one of their comrades, most of them remained on their feet, eyes and ears on the lookout, ready to scamper like a pack of jackals at the slightest appearance of danger. At first, they discovered nothing suspicious. But later, around two o’clock in the morning, when they were reassured, the fog having dissipated a little, they witnessed a phenomenon well calculated to revive all their worries. In the middle of the deserted land, which the people of the neighborhood called the plain, a small and very bright light described the most capricious evolutions. It moved as if at random, without apparent direction, tracing the most inexplicable zigzags, sometimes skimming the ground, other times rising, motionless for a moment and the next second spinning like a ball. In spite of the place and the season, the least ignorant among the The rogues believed it was a will-o’-the-wisp, one of those light flames that spontaneously ignite above the marshes and float in the atmosphere with the breeze. This will-o’-the-wisp… was the lantern of the two security agents who were continuing their investigations…. Before leaving the site where he had so suddenly revealed himself to his first disciple, Lecoq had experienced long and cruel perplexities. He did not yet have the masterful eye of practice. Above all, he did not have the boldness and promptness of decision that a past of success gives. Now, he hesitated between two equally reasonable parties, each offering probabilities and arguments of equal weight in its favor. He found himself between two leads: that of the two women, on the one hand, that of the accomplice of the incident, on the other. Which one to stick to?… For, to be able to raise them both, one could not hope. Sitting on the plank that seemed to him to still retain the warmth of the woman’s body, his forehead in his hand, he reflected, he weighed his chances. “Following the man,” he murmured, “will not tell me anything I cannot guess. He went to lie in wait as the patrol passed, he accompanied them from afar, he watched his accomplice being arrested, in short, he probably prowled around the station. By throwing myself quickly on his trail, can I hope to catch up with him, to seize him in person? No, too much time has passed…. Father Absinthe listened to this monologue with ardent and convinced curiosity, as anxious as the simpleton who has gone to consult a sleepwalker about a lost object, and who is waiting for the oracle. “Following the women,” the young policeman continued, “what will that lead to? Perhaps to an important discovery, perhaps to nothing!” On this side, it is the unknown with all its disappointments, but also with all its lucky chances. He stood up, his mind made up. “Well!” he cried, “I choose the unknown! We will, Father Absinthe, follow in the footsteps of the two women, and as long as they guide us, we will go…” Inflamed with a similar ardor, they set off. At the end of the path they were taking, they saw, like a magic beacon, one the gratification, the other the glory of success. They were going at a brisk pace. At first it was only a game to follow these very distinct tracks which led away in the direction of the Seine. But they were soon forced to slow their pace. The desert was ending, they were reaching the confines of civilization , so to speak, and at every moment foreign footprints mingled with the prints of the fugitives, merged with them; and sometimes erased them. Then, in many places, depending on the exposure or the nature of the soil, the thaw had done its work, and large spaces were encountered that were absolutely clear of snow. The trail was then interrupted, and it was not too much, to recapture it, with all the sagacity of Lecoq and all the good will of his old companion. On these occasions, Father Absinthe would plant his cane in the ground, near the last footprint found, and Lecoq and he would search and beat the ground around this point of reference, like bloodhounds in error. It was then that the lantern moved so strangely. Ten times, despite everything, they would have lost the way or been mistaken, if it had not been for the elegant boots of the woman with the small foot. These boots had heels so high, so narrow, so singularly indented, that they made a mistake impossible. They sank three or four centimeters into the snow or mud with each step, and their telltale imprint remained as clear as that of a seal on wax. It was thanks to these heels that the agents recognized that the two fugitives had not gone back up the Rue du Patay, as one would have expected. wait. No doubt they had judged it unsafe and too well lit. They had simply crossed it, a little below the Alley of the Red Cross, and had taken advantage of a gap between two houses to plunge into the vacant lots. “Decidedly,” murmured Lecoq, “the scamps know the country. Indeed, they knew the topography so well that, upon leaving the Rue du Patay, they had turned abruptly to the right, to avoid vast trenches opened by brick-earth diggers. But their trail had become more than visible again, and it remained so until the Rue du Chevaleret. There, for example, the clues abruptly ceased. Lecoq did indeed pick up eight or ten footprints of the fugitive in the flat shoes, but that was all. The terrain, it is true, hardly lent itself to an exploration of this nature. The traffic had been quite active in the Rue du Chevaleret, and if there was still a little snow on the sidewalks, the middle of the roadway had been transformed into a river of mud. “Have the girls finally thought that the snow could betray them,” grumbled the young policeman, “have they taken to the roadway? They certainly couldn’t have crossed as they had a moment before; for on the other side of the street stretched the wall of a factory. “N, n, n,” pronounced Father Absinthe, “we’re out of pocket.” But Lecoq was not of the sort to throw away the handle after the axe for a failure. Animated by the cold rage of a man who sees the object he thought he had grasped slipping away from him, he began his search again, and it was a good thing he did. “I’ve found it!” he suddenly cried, “I guess, I see!” Father Absinthe approached. He neither saw nor guessed, but he no longer doubted his companion. “Look there,” Lecoq said to him; “what do you see?…” “The tracks left by the wheels of a carriage that has come to a halt. ” “Well!… Papa, these tracks explain everything. Arriving at this street, our fugitives saw in the distance the lanterns of a cab approaching, returning from Paris. If it was empty, it was salvation. They waited for it, and when it came within range, they called the coachman… No doubt they promised him a good tip; what is clear is that he agreed to turn back. He came to a halt, they got into the carriage… and that is why the tracks end here. ” This explanation did not cheer the old man up. “Are we any further ahead, now that we know that?” he said. Lecoq couldn’t help but shrug his shoulders. “Did you hope,” he said, “that the trail of the hussies would lead us through all of Paris to the door of their house?” “No, but… ” “Then what more do you want? Do you think I won’t be able to find that coachman tomorrow? He was coming home empty-handed, that man, his day’s done, so his coach house is in the neighborhood. Do you think he won’t remember picking up two people on Rue du Chevaleret? He ‘ll tell us where he dropped them off, which means nothing, because they certainly won’t have given him their address, but he’ll also tell us their description, how they were dressed, their appearance, their age, their manners.” And with that, and what we already know… An eloquent gesture completed his thought, then he added: –It is now a question of returning to the Poivrière, and quickly… And you, old man, you can put out your lantern. Chapter 6. While firmly moving his legs to keep up with his companion who was almost running, so eager was he to be back at the Poivrière, Father Absinthe was thinking, and a whole new light was dawning in his brain. In the twenty-five years he had been at the Prefecture, the good man had seen, according to his expression, many colleagues pass over him, and conquer after a year of employment a position that was refused to his long service. In such cases, he never failed to accuse his superiors of injustice, and his happy rivals of base flattery. For him, seniority was the only title to advancement, the unique, the finest, the most respectable. When he had said: To give preferential treatment to an old man, to an old hand, is an infamy, he had summed up his opinion, his grievances and all his bitterness. Well!… that night, Father Absinthe discovered that besides seniority there was something, and that the choice has its reason for being. He admitted to himself that this conscript whom he had treated so lightly, had just begun an investigation as he, a seasoned veteran, would never have been able to do. But talking to oneself was not the good man’s strong point, he soon became bored with himself, and as they came to a passage difficult enough to make it necessary to slow down the train, he judged the moment favorable for a bit of conversation. “You say nothing, comrade,” he began, “and one would swear that you are not happy. This you, the surprising result of the reflections of the old agent, would have struck Lecoq, if his mind had not been a thousand leagues from his companion’s. “I am not happy, indeed,” he replied. “Come now!… You were as cheerful as a lark, not ten minutes ago . ” “It is because then I did not foresee the misfortune that threatens us. ” “A misfortune… ” “And a very great one. Don’t you feel that the weather has become incredibly milder? It is clear that the wind is from the south.” The fog has dissipated, but the weather is overcast, it threatens… It may rain before an hour. “It’s already drizzling, I just felt one…” This sentence had on Lecoq the effect of a whip on a vigorous horse. He leaped up and took on an even more hurried pace, repeating: “Let’s hurry!… let’s hurry!…” The good man broke into a running pace, but his mind could not have been more troubled by his young companion’s reply. A great misfortune!… The south wind!… The rain!… He didn’t see, no, he couldn’t see the connection. Intrigued beyond measure, vaguely worried, he questioned, although he had barely enough breath to keep up the forced running he was doing. “Upon my word,” he said, “I’ve racked my brains…” The young policeman took pity on his anxiety. “What!…” he interrupted, still running, “don’t you understand that the fate of our investigation, my success, your reward, depend on these black clouds that the wind drives !… ” “Oh!… ” “There is no oh!” said the old man, unfortunately. “Twenty minutes of a light, gentle rain and we would have wasted our time and effort. Let it rain, the snow melts and goodbye to our evidence. Ah! It’s inevitable! Let’s walk, let’s walk faster!… Have you reached the point where you know that an investigation must bring something other than words!… When we tell the investigating judge that we saw footprints , he will answer us: where? And what can we say?… When we swear on our gods that we recognized and raised the feet of a man and two women, they will say to us: show us?… Who will be ashamed then?… Father Absinthe and Lecoq. Not to mention that Gévrol will not fail to declare that we are lying to show off and to humiliate him… –For example!… –Faster, papa, faster, you will be indignant tomorrow. Provided it does not rain!… Such beautiful, clear, recognizable prints , which would confound the guilty… How to preserve them. By what process to solidify them?… I would flow my blood there, if it were to congeal there. Father Absinthe did himself the justice that his share of collaboration until now was very minimal. He had held the lantern. But now, to acquire real and solid rights to gratification, an opportunity, he believed, presented itself. He seized it… “I know,” he declared, “how one operates to mold and preserve footprints marked in the snow.” At these words, the young policeman stopped short. “You know that, don’t you?” he interrupted. “Yes, I do,” replied the old agent, with the hint of fatuity of a man taking his revenge. “The trick was invented for the White House affair that took place in the winter, in December… ” “I remember it. ” “Well!… there was on the snow, in the courtyard, a large devil of a footprint that delighted the investigating judge. He said that it alone was the whole point, and that it would be worth ten more years of hard labor for the accused. Naturally, he wanted to preserve it. Where a great chemist from Paris was brought. –Pass, pass!… –For the time being, I did not see the thing being done with my own eyes, but the expert told me everything while showing me the block that had been obtained. He even told me that he was explaining this to me because of my profession, and for my education… Lecoq was stamping his feet with impatience. –Finally, he said abruptly, how did he go about it. –Wait… I’ve got it. We take plates of gelatin of the first quality, very transparent, and we soak them in cold water . When they are well softened, we heat them and melt them in a bain-marie, until they form a porridge that is neither too clear nor too thick. We let this porridge cool to the point where it only flows very slightly and we pour a very thin layer over the impression. Lecoq was seized with that irritation so natural after a false joy, when we recognize that we have wasted our time listening to an imbecile. “Enough!” he interrupted harshly. “Your method is Hugolin’s, and it’s found in all the manuals. It’s excellent, but what use can it be to us? Do you have any gelatin on you?” “No, for that matter…” “Nor me either…” It would have been just as well to advise me to pour molten lead into the prints to fix them…” They resumed their journey, and five minutes later, without a word being exchanged, they entered the Widow Chupin’s tavern. The good man’s first impulse must have been to sit down, rest , breathe… Lecoq didn’t give him the chance. “Steady, papa!” he ordered. “Get me a tureen, a dish, a vase of some kind; give me some water; gather together all the planks, crates, and old boxes there are in this galley.” He himself, while his companion obeyed, armed himself with a shard of bottle and began to furiously scrape the plaster of the partition that separated the ground-floor rooms of the Poivrière in two. His intelligence, disconcerted at first by the imminence of an unforeseen catastrophe, had regained its balance. He had reflected, he had worked hard to find a way to ward off the accident… and he hoped. When he had seven or eight handfuls of plaster dust at his feet, he diluted half of it in water, so as to form an extremely inconsistent paste, and he put the rest aside on a plate. “Now, papa,” he said, “come and enlighten me.” Once in the garden, the young policeman looked for the clearest and deepest of the prints, knelt before it and began his experiment, palpitating with anxiety. He first spread a thin layer of dry plaster dust over the print, and on this layer, with infinite precautions, he gradually poured his mixture, which he sprinkled with dry dust. Oh joy!… The attempt succeeded!… The whole thing formed a homogeneous block and molded itself. And after an hour of work, he possessed half a dozen photographs, perhaps lacking in clarity, but still quite sufficient as evidence. Lecoq had been right to be afraid; the rain was beginning. He still had time, however, to cover a certain number of traces with the boards and crates gathered by Father Absinthe, thus sheltering them from the thaw for a few hours… Finally, he breathed. The investigating judge could come. Chapter 7. It’s a long way from La Poivrière to Rue du Chevaleret, even by taking the plain which avoids the detours. It had taken Lecoq and his old colleague no less than four hours to gather their information outside. And during all this time, the Widow Chupin’s cabaret had remained wide open, accessible to the first comer. Yet, when the young policeman, on his return, noticed this neglect of the most elementary precautions, he hadn’t worried about it. All things considered, it was difficult to suspect any serious drawbacks to this carelessness. Who would have come to this tavern after midnight? Its formidable reputation was built around it like fortifications. The worst rogues did not drink there without anxiety, fearing, if they were to lose consciousness of their actions, to be robbed by pepper-pot thieves . It was possible, at most, that an intrepid soul, returning from dancing at the Arc-en-Ciel, where there was a night ball, feeling a few pennies in his pocket, and consequently thirsty, would have been attracted by the light escaping from the door. But a glance inside was enough to put the bravest to flight. In less than a second, the young policeman had considered all these probabilities, but he had not breathed a word of them to Father Absinthe. It was that, little by little, the intoxication of his joy and his hopes had dissipated, he had returned to his usual calm and, making a return to himself, he was not delighted with his conduct. Let him try out his system of investigations on Father Absinthe, as the apprentice tribune tries out his oratorical means on his friends, nothing better. He had even overwhelmed the veteran of the rue de Jérusalem with his superiority, he had crushed him. What a fine merit and a rare victory!… The good man was a fool; he, Lecoq, thought himself very clever… Was that a reason to strut and show off?… If only he had given a striking proof of his strength and his penetration !… But what had he done?… Was the mystery cleared up?… Did success cease to be problematic?… For a thread pulled, the skein is not unraveled. That night, no doubt, while his future as a policeman was being decided, he swore to himself that, if he could not cure himself of his vanity, he would try to hide it. So it was in a very modest tone that he addressed his companion: “We have finished with the outside,” he said; “would it not be wise to take care of the inside?” Everything seemed just as the two officers had seen it as they left. A candle with a smoky, charred wick lit up with its reddish reflections the same disorder, and the stiffened corpses of the three victims. Without losing a minute, Lecoq began to pick up and study one by one all the overturned objects. Some were still intact. This was because the widow Chupin had shrunk from the expense of tiling, judging the very ground on which the tavern was built to be good enough for the feet of her clients . This ground, which must have been smooth in the past, like the farmyard, had deteriorated over time, and in wet weather, in days of thaw, it was hardly less muddy than the plain itself. The first searches yielded the remains of a salad bowl, and a large iron spoon, too twisted not to have been used as a weapon. during the battle. It was clear that at the first words of the quarrel, the victims were enjoying this mixture of water, wine, and sugar, classic at the barriers, under the name of vin à la française. After the salad bowl, the two agents gathered five of those horrible cabaret glasses, heavy, with very thick bottoms, which look as if they should contain half a bottle, and which, in reality, hold almost nothing. Three were broken, two whole. There had been wine in these five glasses… the same vin à la française. It was visible, but to be on the safe side, Lecoq applied his tongue to the kind of bluish molasses remaining at the bottom of each of them.
“Devil!” he murmured with a worried air. He immediately examined the tops of all the overturned tables in turn . On one of them, the one between the fireplace and the window, one could distinguish the still-damp traces of five glasses, the salad bowl, and even the spoon. This circumstance had enormous gravity for the young policeman. It clearly proved that five people had emptied the company salad bowl. But which people?… “Oh!” Lecoq said in two different tones. “Oh!… Could it be that the two women were with the incident?… A simple way presented itself to remove all doubts. It was to see if other glasses would not be discovered. Only one was discovered, the same shape as the others, but smaller. Brandy had been drunk from it. Therefore, the women were not with the incident, therefore he had not fought because the others had insulted them, therefore… Suddenly, all of Lecoq’s suppositions went to waste. It was a first failure, he was silently lamenting it, when Father Absinthe, who had not stopped snooping, gave a cry. The young policeman turned around and saw that the other was completely pale. “What’s the matter?” he asked. “Someone must have come in our absence. ” “Impossible!… It wasn’t impossible, it was true. When Gevrol had torn off Widow Chupin’s apron, he had thrown it down the stairs, none of the officers had touched it… Well!… the pockets of that apron were turned inside out, that was proof, that was obvious. The young policeman was dismayed, and the contraction of his face spoke of the effort of his thought. “Who can have come?” he murmured. Thieves?… It’s improbable… Then, after a long silence which the old policeman took care not to interrupt: “Whoever came,” he cried, “who dared to enter this room guarded by the corpses of murdered men… that one can only be the accomplice… But a suspicion is not enough, I must have certainty, I must have it, I want it!… Ah!… they searched for it for a long time, and it was only after more than an hour of effort that, in front of the door broken down by Gévrol, they unraveled in the mud, between all the trampling, a footprint which exactly matched those of the man who had come to spy in the garden. They compared, they recognized the same patterns formed by the nails under the sole. “So it’s him!” said the young policeman. He watched us, he saw us moving away and he came in… But why?… What pressing, irresistible necessity could have decided him to brave imminent danger?… He seized his companion’s hand, and squeezing it until it broke: “Why?” he continued violently. Ah!… I can only guess it too well. There had been left here, forgotten, lost, some piece of conviction that was to illuminate the darkness of this horrible affair… And to recapture it, to recapture it, he devoted himself. And to think that it is through my fault, through my fault alone, that this decisive proof escapes us… And I thought I was strong!… What lesson!… The door should have been closed, an imbecile would have thought of it… He broke off and remained open-mouthed, his pupils dilated, extending his finger towards one of the corners of the room. “What’s the matter?” asked the frightened fellow. He didn’t answer; but slowly, with the stiff movements of a sleepwalker, he approached the spot he had pointed to, bent down, picked up a very small object, and said: “My carelessness did not deserve this happiness.” The object he had picked up was an earring, of the kind that jewelers call buttons. It was composed of a single diamond, very suitable for all types of body. The setting was of marvelous delicacy… “This diamond,” he declared, after a moment’s examination, “must be worth at least five or six thousand francs. ” “Really?”… “I think I can say so.” He would not have said: I believe, a few hours earlier, he would have said outright: I affirm. But a first error was a lesson he was not to forget in his life. “Perhaps,” objected Father Absinthe, “perhaps it was this earring that the accomplice came looking for? ” “This supposition is hardly admissible. In that case, he would not have searched Chupin’s apron. What good would it do?… No, he must have been running after something else… after a letter, for example…” The old policeman was no longer listening; he had taken the earring and was examining it in his turn. “And to think,” he murmured, amazed at the sparkle of the diamond, “and to think that a woman came to the Poivrière who had ten thousand francs’ worth of stones in her ears!… who would believe it!” Lecoq nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, it’s unbelievable,” he replied, “incredible, absurd… And yet, we shall see many others, if we ever succeed—which I doubt—in tearing the veil from this mysterious affair. Chapter 8. The day dawned sad and gloomy, when Lecoq and his old colleague judged their information complete. There was not a square inch left in the cabaret that had not been explored, scrupulously examined, studied, so to speak, with a magnifying glass. All that remained was to write the report. The young policeman sat down at a table and began by sketching the plan of the scene of the incident, a plan whose explanatory legend was to greatly aid the understanding of his story: A.—Point from which the patrol commanded by the inspector of the security service, Gévrol, heard the cries of the victims. (The distance from this point to the cabaret called La Poivrière is only 123 meters, which suggests that these cries were the first, and that, consequently, the fight was only just beginning.) B.–Window closed by solid shutters, the openings of which allowed one of the agents to see the scene from the inside. C.–Door broken down by the security inspector, Gévrol. D.–Staircase on which the widow Chupin, temporarily arrested , was sitting, weeping . (It was on the third step of this staircase that the widow Chupin’s apron was later found, with her pockets turned out.) F.–Fireplace. HHH–Tables. (The prints of a salad bowl and five glasses were found on the one between points F. and B.)
T.–Door communicating with the back room of the cabaret, in front of which the armed incident was standing. K.–Second door of the cabaret, opening onto the garden, and through which entered the one of the agents who had the idea of cutting off the retreat of the incident. L.–Gate of the small garden, opening onto the vacant lots. MMM–Footprints in the snow, noted by the agents who remained at the Poivrière, after the departure of Inspector Gévrol. Thus, in this explanatory note, Lecoq did not write his name once. In describing the things he had imagined or done, he simply put: an agent… This was not modesty, but calculation. By stepping aside appropriately, one gains greater prominence when one emerges from the shadows. It was also by calculation that he placed Gévrol in the forefront. This tactic, a little too subtle, but a good one, in short, should, he thought, draw attention to the agent who had been able to act when all the chief’s efforts had been limited to breaking down a door. What he was writing was not a report, an authentic document reserved only for officers of the judicial police,–it was a simple report admitted at most as information, and yet he treated it like a young general the bulletin of his first victory. While he drew and wrote, Father Absinthe leaned over his shoulder to see. The plan, in particular, amazed the good man. Much had passed before his eyes, but he had always imagined that one had to be an engineer, an architect, a surveyor at least, to carry out such work. Period. With a meter stick to take a few measurements and a piece of board as a ruler, this conscript, his colleague, got by. His esteem for Lecoq increased prodigiously. It is true that the worthy veteran of the Rue de Jérusalem had noticed neither the explosion of the young policeman’s vanity, nor his return to a modest attitude. He had seen neither his anxieties, nor his hesitations, nor the defects of his insight. After a good while, however, Father Absinthe grew tired of watching the pen run over the paper. He felt the discomfort of a night spent, his head felt burning and he shivered. Then, his knees, as he said, would sink into his body. Perhaps, too, without being aware of it, he felt some impression of this cabaret room, more sinister in the pale light of dawn. In any case, he began to rummage through the cupboards and finally discovered, oh joy!… a bottle of brandy three-quarters full. He hesitated for a second, but my goodness!… he poured himself a large glassful, which he downed in one gulp. “Would you like some?” he asked his companion afterward. “As famous as it is, no, it isn’t… But that doesn’t matter, it energizes and dissipates.” Lecoq refused; he didn’t need to be dissipated. All the faculties of his intelligence were at stake. It was a matter of the investigating judge simply reading the report saying: “Go and fetch me the fellow who wrote this.” His whole future as a policeman lay in that order. And he endeavored to be clear, brief, and precise, to clearly indicate how his suspicions about the incident had come about, had grown, and been confirmed. He explained by what series of deductions he had arrived at establishing a truth which, if it was not the true one, was at least a truth probable enough to serve as a basis for an investigation. Then he detailed the pieces of evidence placed before him at that moment. These were the flakes of brown wool collected on the beam, the precious earring, the photographs of the various prints in the garden, the apron with the Widow Chupin’s turned-out pockets. It was the revolver from the incident, three out of five shots of which were still loaded. The weapon, although unadorned, was remarkably handsome and neat, and on the butt it bore the name of one of the first gunsmiths in London: Stephen, 14 Skinner Street. Lecoq felt that by searching the victims he would gather other clues, perhaps very valuable, but he did not dare to do this. He was still too young a boy to risk such a step. Besides, he understood that if he did risk it, Gevrol, furious at having gone astray, would not fail to cry out that By disturbing the posture of the bodies, he had made the doctors’ findings impossible. He consoled himself, however, and was rereading his report, changing a few expressions here and there, when Father Absinthe, who had gone to smoke a pipe on the threshold, called him. “What’s new?” replied Lecoq. “Here are Gevrol and two of our colleagues who are bringing back with them the commissioner and two well-dressed gentlemen. ” It was, in fact, the police commissioner who had arrived, very concerned about this triple incident which was bloodying his district, but moderately worried. Why should he be upset? Gevrol, whose opinion on such matters was authoritative, had taken care to reassure him when he went to wake him. “It’s only a question,” he had told him, “of a battery between some of our regulars, the regulars at the Poivrière.” If all these bad guys could destroy each other, we would be more at ease. He added that the incident had been stopped, locked up, and that consequently this case presented no urgency. Moreover, the crime did not, could not have been theft as its motive. It was enormous. The police have come to worry about attacks on property more, perhaps, than attacks on people. And this is logical, at a time when the wiles of lust replace the energy of passion, when audacious scoundrels become rare while cowardly rogues abound. The commissioner therefore saw no problem in waiting for daylight to carry out a summary investigation. He had seen the incident, notified the public prosecutor, and now he came, without too much haste, accompanied by two doctors delegated by the imperial prosecutor for the forensic findings. He also brought a sergeant-major of the 53rd line riflemen, requested by him, to identify, if necessary, which of the dead was wearing the uniform, and who, judging by the number on the buttons of his greatcoat, belonged to the 53rd regiment then quartered in the forts. Even less than the commissioner, the inspector of security was worried. He went whistling, describing windmills with his cane which never leaves his side, celebrating the discomfiture of this presumptuous fellow who had wanted to stay to glean where he had not seen a harvest. So, as soon as he was within earshot, he called out to Father Absinthe, who, after having warned Lecoq, had remained on the threshold of the door, leaning against the doorposts, regularly puffing and blowing back puffs of his pipe, motionless as a smoking sphinx. “Well!… old fellow,” cried Gevrol, “do you have to tell us about a good person of all types, a melodrama, very dark and very mysterious? ” “I have nothing to tell you,” replied the old man, without removing the pipe soldered to his lips, “I’m too stupid, it’s well known… But Monsieur Lecoq could well teach you something you hadn’t counted on.” This title: “Monsieur,” with which the old security agent bestowed upon his comrade, displeased Gevrol so much that he would not understand. “Who is that…” he said, “who are you talking about? ” “My colleague, of course!… who is just finishing his report, Monsieur Lecoq, in short. ” Without malice, certainly, the old man had just become the young policeman’s godfather. From that day on, for his enemies as well as for his friends, he became and remained Monsieur Lecoq. Monsieur, in all letters. “Ah!” Ah!… said the inspector, who clearly had a flea in his ear. Ah!… he discovered…. –The can of worms that the others hadn’t sniffed out… yes, General, that’s it. With this single sentence, Father Absinthe made an enemy of his chief. But Lecoq had seduced him. He was on Lecoq’s side, against all odds, he was determined to attach himself to him, to share his fortune, bad or good. –We’ll see! murmured the inspector, who to himself promised himself to to watch this boy, whom a success could pose as a rival. He added nothing more. The group he preceded arrived, and he stepped aside to give way to the police commissioner. This commissioner was no novice. He had been a peace officer in the Faubourg du Temple district in the heyday of the Épi-Scié and the Quatre-Billards, and yet he could not control a movement of horror as he entered the Poivrière room. The sergeant-major of the 53rd, who followed him, a brave old medal-winner and seasoned veteran, was even more impressed. He became as pale as the corpses that were there, on the ground, and was obliged to lean against the wall. Only the two doctors were stoic. Lecoq had stood up, his report in his hand; he had saluted, and, adopting a respectful attitude, he waited to be questioned. “You must have spent a dreadful night,” said the commissioner kindly, “and of no use to justice, for all the investigations were superfluous…. ” “I believe, however,” replied the young policeman, fully armored with diplomacy, “that I did not waste my time. I was determined to comply with my chief’s instructions, I searched and I found many things… I have acquired, for example, the certainty that the incident had a friend, if not an accomplice, whose description I could almost give … He must be of a certain age, and wear, if I am not mistaken, a cap with a soft cap and a coat of fuzzy brown cloth; as for his boots…” “Thunder!” exclaimed Gevrol, “and I who…” He stopped short, like a man whose instinct has overtaken his reflection, and who would like to be able to take back his words. “And you who?” asked the commissioner. “What do you mean?” Furious, but too far gone to back down, the security inspector complied. “Here’s the thing,” he said. “This morning, an hour ago, while I was waiting for you, Commissioner, in front of the post at the Barrière d’Italie, where the incident is recorded, I saw an individual coming from a distance whose description is not without analogy with the one Lecoq gives us. This man seemed to me abominably drunk, he was staggering, he was stumbling, he was beating the walls… He tried to cross the roadway, however, but when he reached the middle, he lay down across it, in such a position that he could not fail to be crushed. Lecoq turned his head away; he didn’t want anyone to read in his eyes that he understood. ” “Seeing this,” Gevrol continued, “I called two policemen and asked them to come and help me get this unfortunate man up.” We go to him, he already seemed asleep, we shake him, he sits up , we tell him he can’t stay there…, but then he immediately appears seized with a furious rage, he insults us, he threatens us, he tries to hit us… And by golly!… we take him to the police station, so that he can at least sleep off his wine in safety. “And you locked him up with the incident?” asked Lecoq. “Naturally… You know very well that at the post of the Italian barrier there are only two violins, one for the men, the other for the women; consequently… ” The commissioner reflected. “Ah!… that’s annoying,” he murmured… and there’s no remedy. “Pardon!… he is one,” objected Gevrol. ” I can send one of my men to the station, with orders to detain the pretend drunkard…” With a gesture, the young policeman dared to interrupt him. “It’s all in vain,” he said coldly. “If this individual is the accomplice, he’s sobered up, don’t worry, and he’s far away now . ” “So… what should we do?” asked the inspector in his most ironic manner. “May we have the opinion of… Mr. Lecoq? ” “I think that chance offered us a superb opportunity, that we didn’t know how to seize it, and that the shortest course is to mourn it and wait for it to present itself again.” Despite everything, Gevrol persisted in sending one of his men, and as soon as he had moved away, Lecoq had to begin reading his report. He delivered it quickly, avoiding highlighting the decisive circumstances, reserving his innermost thoughts for the investigation , but so strong was the logic of his deductions that at every moment he was interrupted by the approval of the commissioner and the very good! of the doctors. Only Gevrol, who represented the opposition, shrugged his shoulders until his neck was twisted, while turning green with jealousy. The report finished: “I believe, young man,” said the commissioner to Lecoq, “that you alone in this matter have seen the truth… I was mistaken. But your explanations make me see in a completely different light the attitude of the incident while I was questioning him, only a moment ago.” It’s that he refused, oh!… obstinately, to answer me… He didn’t even consent to tell me his name… He was silent for a moment, gathering in his memory all the circumstances of the past, and in a thoughtful tone he added: “We are, I would swear, in the presence of one of those mysterious crimes whose motives escape human perspicacity… one of those dark affairs about which justice never has the final word…
” Lecoq hid a subtle smile. “Oh!” he thought, “we shall see!” Chapter 9. Never has a consultation at the bedside of a patient dying of some unknown illness brought together two doctors as different as those who, at the request of the public prosecutor, accompanied the police commissioner . One, tall, old, completely bald, wore a large hat, and over his vast, badly cut black coat, an overcoat of antique form. This one was one of those modest scholars, such as one meets in the outlying districts of Paris, one of those healers devoted to their art, who, too often, die unknown after immense services rendered. He had the good-natured calm of a man who, having examined all human miseries, understands everything. But a troubled conscience could not sustain his perceptive gaze, sharper than his lancets. The other, young, fresh, blond, jovial, too well dressed, hid his white and chilly hands under fur-lined suede gloves. His eye knew only to caress or to laugh. He must have been enamored of all those miraculous panaceas that each month leap from the pharmacy laboratories to the fourth page of the newspapers. He must have written more than one medical article for the use of society people, in the sports papers. “I would ask you, gentlemen,” the police commissioner told them, ” to begin your examination by examining the victim who is wearing military uniform. Here is a sergeant-major, required for a simple question of identity, whom I would like to send back to his barracks as soon as possible.” The two doctors responded with a gesture of assent, and, assisted by Father Absinthe and another officer, they lifted the corpse and laid it on two tables, previously placed end to end. There had been no need to study the posture of the body to gain any insight, since the unfortunate man, who was still groaning when the patrol arrived, had been moved before expiring. “Come closer, sergeant,” ordered the police commissioner, “and look closely at this man.” It was with very visible repugnance that the old soldier obeyed. “What uniform is he wearing?” continued the commissioner. –The one from the 53rd Line Regiment, 2nd Battalion, Voltigeurs Company. –Do you recognize him? –Not at all. –Are you sure he doesn’t belong to your regiment? –I can’t say for sure; there are conscripts at the depot I’ve never seen. But I am ready to say that he was never part of the 2nd Battalion, which is mine, of the Voltigeurs Company of which I am the sergeant-major. Lecoq, who had remained apart until then, stepped forward. “Perhaps it would be good,” he said, “to see the serial number of this man’s belongings. ” “That’s a good idea,” the sergeant approved. “Here’s still his kepi,” the young policeman added, “it bears the number 3,129 at the bottom. ” Lecoq’s advice was followed, and it was discovered that each of the unfortunate man’s items of clothing was stamped with a different number. “By Jove!…” murmured the sergeant, “he has them from every parish… It’s strange all the same!” Invited to scrupulously verify his assertions, the brave soldier redoubled his efforts, summoning all his intellectual faculties with an effort. “My goodness!” he said finally, “I’d bet my stripes that he’s never been a soldier.” This individual must be a commoner who disguised himself like that as a joke, on the occasion of Shrove Sunday. –How do you recognize it!… –Lady!… I feel it better than I can explain it. I recognize him by his hair, his nails, his attire, by a certain something, in short, by everything and nothing… And look, the poor devil didn’t even know how to put on his shoes, he laced his gaiters upside down. There was obviously no longer any hesitation after this testimony, which confirmed Lecoq’s first observation. –However, insisted the commissioner, if this individual is a commoner, how did he get these clothes? Could he have borrowed them from men in your company? –At a pinch, yes… but it is difficult to imagine. –Is it at least possible to be sure? –Oh!… very well. I have only to run to the barracks and order a clothing inspection. “Indeed,” the commissioner approved, “the method is good. But Lecoq had just thought of one just as conclusive and quicker. “A word, sergeant,” he said. “Don’t regiments sell from time to time, at public auction, their out-of-service clothes? ” “Yes… at least once a year, after inspection. ” “And isn’t a remark made on the clothes thus sold?” “Pardon me. ” “Then see if this unfortunate man’s uniform doesn’t show traces of this remark.” The non-commissioned officer turned back the collar of the greatcoat, inspected the waistband of the trousers, and said: “You are right… these are invalid clothes.” The young policeman’s eye sparkled, but it was only a flash. “Then,” he observed, “this poor devil must have bought this costume.” Where?… At the Temple, necessarily, at one of those extremely rich merchants who personally deal in all types of corps in military effects. There are only five or six of them, I will go from one to the other, and the one who sold this uniform will certainly recognize his merchandise by some sign…. “And that will take us far,” grumbled Gevrol. Far or not, the incident was settled. The sergeant-major, to his great satisfaction, received authorization to withdraw, not without having been warned, however, that very probably the investigating judge would need his statement. The time had come to search the false soldier, and the police commissioner, who took charge of this operation in person, hoped that it would result in some kind of demonstration of the identity of this unknown person. He carried out the operation, and at the same time dictated to an officer his report, that is to say, the meticulous description of all the objects he encountered. It was: In the right trouser pocket: smoking tobacco, a briar pipe and matches. In the left pocket: a very dirty leather purse, in the shape of a wallet, containing seven francs sixty centimes, and a cloth pocket handkerchief, quite clean, but without a mark. And nothing else!… The commissioner was in despair when, turning the purse over and over , he discovered a compartment which he had missed, by this reason that it was hidden under a fold of leather. In this compartment was a carefully folded piece of paper. He unfolded it and read aloud this note: My dear Gustave, Tomorrow, Sunday evening, do not fail to come to the ball at the Rainbow, according to our agreements. If you have no more money, come to my house, I will leave some with my concierge who will give it to you. Be there at eight o’clock. If I am not there already, I will appear soon. All is well, LACHENEUR. Alas!… what did this letter teach! That the dead man’s name was Gustave; that he was in touch with Lacheneur, who advanced him money for a certain thing, and that moreover they had met at the Rainbow a few hours before the incident. It was little, very little!… It was something, however; it was a clue, and in this absolute darkness, sometimes the faintest glimmer is enough to guide one. “Lacheneur!” grumbled Gévrol, “the poor devil was saying that name in his agony… ” “Precisely,” insisted Father Absinthe, “and he even wanted to take revenge on him… He accused him of having lured him into a trap… The misfortune is that the last hiccup cut him off…” Lecoq was silent. The police commissioner had handed him the letter, and he was studying it with incredible intensity of attention. The paper was ordinary, the ink blue. In one corner was a half-erased stamp revealing only this name: Beaumarchais. That was enough for Lecoq. “This letter,” he thought, “was certainly written in a café on Boulevard Beaumarchais… Which one? I shall know, for it is this Lacheneur whom we must find.” While the men of the Prefecture, gathered around the commissioner, were holding council and deliberating, the doctors were approaching the delicate and truly painful part of their task. With the help of the obliging Father Absinthe, they had stripped the body of the false soldier of its clothes, and, bending over their subject, like surgeons in anatomy class, with their sleeves rolled up, they examined it, inspected it, and evaluated it physically. The young doctor-artist would willingly have skipped over formalities that , in his opinion, were very ridiculous and completely superfluous; but the old man had too high an opinion of the mission of the forensic doctor to make light of the smallest detail. Minutely, with the most scrupulous accuracy, he noted the size of the dead man, his presumed age, the nature of his temperament, the color and length of his hair, relating the state of his plumpness and the degree of development of his muscular system. Then they moved on to examine the wound. Lecoq had seen clearly. The doctors noted a fracture at the base of the skull. It could only, their report stated, have been produced by the action of a blunt instrument with a large surface, or by a violent shock of the head against a very hard body of a certain extent. However, no weapon had been found, other than the revolver, the butt of which was not strong enough to produce such a wound. It was therefore absolutely necessary that there had been a hand- to-hand struggle between the fake soldier and the incident, and that the latter, seizing his adversary by the neck, had smashed his head against the wall. The presence of very small and numerous bruises around the neck gave these conclusions absolute plausibility. They noted no other injury; not a contusion, not a scratch, nothing. Did it not then become obvious that this fierce, deadly struggle must have been exceedingly short. Between the moment when the patrol heard a cry and the moment when Lecoq saw the victim fall through the gap in the shutter, everything had been accomplished. The examination of the two other homicides, to speak the language of forensic medicine, required different, if not greater, precautions .
Their position had been respected; they lay across the chimney as they had fallen, and their attitude must have provided valuable clues. It was such, this attitude, that he could not even bear the idea that their death had not been instantaneous. Both were lying on their backs, legs stretched out, hands wide open. No twitching, no twisting of muscles, no trace of struggle, they had been struck down. Their physiognomy, in both, expressed terror reaching its paroxysm. Which should have led one to presume, Devergie’s opinion being accepted, that the last feeling of their existence had been not anger and intolerance, but terror… –So, said the old doctor, I am authorized to imagine that they must have been stupefied by some absolutely unexpected, strange, frightening spectacle … This terrified expression that I see in them, I have only caught it once, on the features of a good woman, who died suddenly from the shock she experienced on seeing one of her neighbors enter her house who had disguised himself as a ghost, to play a good trick on her. Lecoq drank in these explanations of the doctor, so to speak, and he tried to adjust them to the vague hypotheses that arose from the depths of his thoughts. But who could these individuals be, susceptible to such fear? Would they keep the secret of their identity like the other? The first one whom the doctors examined was over fifty. His hair was sparse and whitening; his entire beard was shaved, except for a large, coarse red tuft that blossomed under his very prominent chin. He was miserably dressed, in trousers that frayed over lugubriously worn boots, and a black woolen blouse that was all stained. This one, the old doctor declared, had been killed by a gunshot fired at point-blank range: the width of the circular wound, the absence of blood at the edges, the retracted skin, the exposed, blackened, burned flesh, demonstrated this with mathematical precision. The enormous difference in gunshot wounds according to distance was obvious when the doctors arrived at the autopsy of the last of these unfortunates. The bullet that had killed him had been fired more than a meter from him, and his wound had nothing of the hideous appearance of the other. This individual, at least fifteen years younger than his companion, was small, stocky, and remarkably ugly. His completely beardless face was seamed with smallpox . His attire was that of the worst barrier prowlers. He wore gray-on-gray checked trousers and an open blouse with cuffs. His boots had been polished. The little oilskin cap, which had fallen near him, must have gone well with his pretentious hairstyle and his Collin tie … But that was all the information the doctors’ report, stripped of its technical terms , that was all the information the most careful investigations provided. In vain had the pockets of these two men been explored, searched; they contained nothing that could give any trace of their personality, their name, their social situation, their profession. No, nothing, not even a vague indication, not a letter, not an address, not a scrap of paper; nothing, not even one of those small objects of personal use, like a joke, a knife, a pipe, which can become an opportunity for recognition, for establishing identity. Tobacco in a paper bag, unbranded pocket handkerchiefs, cigarette notebooks, that’s all that had been gathered. The oldest had sixty-seven francs, right in his pocket; the youngest was armed with two louis… Thus, the police had rarely found themselves in the presence of such a A serious matter with so little information. Except for the fact itself, too well proven by three victims, she knew nothing, the circumstances and the motive, and the probabilities glimpsed, far from dissipating the darkness, thickened it. Certainly, it was to be hoped that with time, obstinacy, research and the powerful means of investigation available to the rue de Jérusalem, we would arrive at the truth… But, in the meantime, everything was a mystery, to the point that one was left wondering whose side the crime really lay on. The incident was stopped, but if he persisted in his silence, how could he throw his name in her face? He protested his innocence, how could he be overwhelmed with evidence of his guilt? Of the victims, nothing was known… And one of them accused himself. An inexplicable influence tied the widow Chupin’s tongue. Two women, one of whom could have lost a 5,000-franc earring at the Poivrière, had witnessed the fight… and then disappeared. An accomplice, after two strokes of unheard-of audacity, had escaped…. And all these people, the incident, the women, the innkeeper, the accomplice, and the victims, were equally suspect, disturbing, strange, equally suspected of not being what they seemed. So the commissioner, in a saddened voice, summarized his impressions. Perhaps he was thinking that, on the subject of all this, he would have a difficult quarter of an hour at the Prefecture. “Come,” he said finally, “we will have to take these three individuals to the Morgue. There, they will no doubt be recognized. ” He collected himself and added: “And to think that one of these dead men is perhaps Lacheneur… ” “It’s unlikely,” said Lecoq. The false soldier, the last one left alive, had seen his two companions fall. If he had supposed Lacheneur killed, he would not have spoken of revenge. Gévrol, who for two hours had been pretending to remain aloof, had come closer. He was not the man to yield even to the evidence. “If Monsieur le commissaire,” he said, “will believe me, he will stick to my opinion, a little more positive than Monsieur Lecoq’s reveries . ” The sound of a carriage in front of the door of the cabaret interrupted him, and the next moment the examining magistrate entered. Chapter 10. There was no one at the Poivrière who did not know, at least by sight, the examining magistrate who was arriving, and Gévrol, an old regular at the Palais de Justice, murmured his name: Monsieur Maurice d’Escorval. He was the son of the famous Baron d’Escorval, who, in 1815, almost paid with his life for his devotion to the Empire, and of whom Napoleon, on Saint Helena, made this magnificent eulogy: There exist, I believe, men as honest; but more honest, no, it is not possible. Having entered the judiciary at a young age, endowed with remarkable aptitudes, M. d’Escorval seemed destined for the highest destiny. He deceived the predictions by obstinately refusing all the positions offered to him , in order to keep his modest and useful functions near the tribunal of the Seine . He said, to explain his refusals, that he valued his stay in Paris more than the most envied advancement, and this passion on his part was not really understood . Despite his brilliant connections, in fact, and despite his very considerable fortune, since the death of an elder brother, he led the most withdrawn existence, hiding his life, revealing himself only by his obstinate work and by the good that he spread around him. He was then a man of forty-two, who seemed younger than his age, although his forehead was beginning to recede. One would have admired his physiognomy without the disturbing immobility that marred it, without the sarcastic folds of his too-thin lips, without the dull expression of his pale blue eyes. To say that he was cold and serious would have been to say badly, and too little. He was gravity and coldness itself with a shade of haughtiness… Seized from the threshold of the cabaret by the horror of the spectacle, M. d’Escorval barely granted the doctors and the commissioner a distracted bow. The others did not count for him. Already, all his faculties were at stake. He studied the terrain, stopping his gaze on the smallest objects, with the attentive sagacity of a judge who knows the weight of a detail and understands the eloquence of external circumstances. “It’s serious!” he said finally, “very serious!” The police commissioner, in response, raised his arms to the sky, a gesture which clearly expressed his thoughts: “Who are you telling! The fact is that, for two hours, the worthy commissioner had found his responsibility cruelly heavy, and he blessed the magistrate who relieved him of it. “The Imperial Prosecutor was unable to accompany me,” M. d’Escorval continued, “he does not have the gift of ubiquity, and I doubt it will be possible for him to come and join me.” Let us begin our operations… So far the curiosity of the spectators had been disappointed, so the commissioner was the interpreter of the general feeling when he said: “The investigating judge has doubtless questioned the culprit, and he must know… ” “I know nothing,” interrupted Mr. d’Escorval, who seemed very surprised by the questioning. He sat down with this reply, and while his clerk drew up the preliminaries of any official report, he began to read the report written by Lecoq. Huddled in the shadows, pale, moved, feverish, the young policeman tried to catch on the magistrate’s impassive face a hint of his impressions. It was his future that was being decided, that would depend on a yes or a no. And it was no longer to an obtuse intelligence like that of Father Absinthe that he was addressing himself, but to a superior perspicacity. “If only,” he thought, “I could plead my case!… But what is a written sentence compared to a spoken sentence, mimed, alive, throbbing with the emotion and convictions of the one who pronounces it…. Soon he felt reassured. The face of the examining magistrate remained motionless, but he nodded his head in approval, and even, at times, a detail more ingenious than the others drew from him an exclamation: Not bad!… very good!… When he had finished: “All this,” he said finally to the commissioner, “bears little resemblance to your report of this morning, which presented this dark affair as a battle between a few miserable vagabonds. The observation was only too true, and the commissioner did not regret having remained warmly in bed, relying absolutely on Gevrol. “This morning,” he replied evasively, “I summarized the initial impressions… they have been modified by subsequent research, so that …” “Oh !” interrupted the judge, “I have no reproach for you, I have only congratulations to offer you, on the contrary… One does not act better or more quickly. All this information reveals great insight, and the results are above all presented with rare clarity and precision. ” Lecoq was as if dazzled. The commissioner, for his part, hesitated for a second. The temptation came to him to confiscate the praise for his own benefit. If he rejected it, it was because he was honest and, moreover, it did not displease him to oppose Gevrol, to punish him for his presumptuous levity. “I must confess,” he said finally, “that the honor of this investigation does not belong to me.
” “Therefore, to whom should I attribute it, if not to the inspector of the security service?” So thought M. d’Escorval, not without surprise, for having already employed Gévrol, he was far from suspecting the ingenuity, and especially the style, of the report. –So it is you, he asked him, who have so efficiently conducted this affair? “Well, no!” replied the man from the Prefecture. “I’m not that clever! I just note down what I discover, and I say: There you go. I’ll be hanged if all the imaginings of this report exist elsewhere than in the brain of the one who made it … Jokes, what! Perhaps he was in good faith, being one of those people whose self-esteem blinds them to such an extent that, blinded by the evidence, they deny it. ” “However,” insisted the judge, “the women whose fingerprints are here did exist! The accomplice who left these flakes of wool on a plank is a real being… This earring is a real, palpable clue…” Gévrol held himself to his knees so as not to shrug his shoulders. “All this,” he said, “can be explained without needing to beat around the bush. ” That the incident had an accomplice… it’s possible. The presence of women is natural; wherever there are thieves, one encounters female thieves. As for the diamond, what does it prove?… That the rogues had done a good job, that they had come here to share the loot, and that from sharing came the quarrel… It was an explanation, and so plausible, that M. d’Escorval remained silent, collecting himself before making a decision. “Decidedly,” he declared at last, “I adopt the hypothesis of the report… Who is the author? ” Anger made Gévrol redder than a lobster. “The author,” he replied, “is one of my agents here, a strong and skillful one, Monsieur Lecoq!… Come on, clever fellow, come closer so we can see you… ” The young policeman advanced, his lips contracted in that smile of satisfaction that is familiarly called a heart-shaped mouth. “My report is only a summary, sir,” he began, “but I have certain ideas… ” “You will tell me if I question you,” interrupted the judge. And without worrying about Lecoq’s disappointment, he took two forms from his clerk’s wallet, which he filled out and handed to Gévrol, saying: “Here are two warrants of committal… have the accused and the mistress of this tavern seized at the station where they are recorded, and taken to the Prefecture, where they will be held incommunicado.” This order having been given, M. d’Escorval was already turning towards the doctors, when the young policeman, at the risk of a further rebuff, intervened. “Would I dare,” he asked, “to ask the judge to entrust me with this mission?” “Impossible, I may need you here.” “It’s just that, sir, I would have liked an opportunity to gather certain clues, which will not present itself again… ” The examining magistrate perhaps understood the young agent’s intentions. “So be it,” he replied, “but in that case you will wait for me at the Prefecture, where I will go as soon as I have finished here… Go on!” Lecoq did not have to repeat the permission; he grabbed the warrants and rushed outside. He was not running, he was flying across the vacant lots. He no longer felt anything from the fatigue of the night. Never had he felt his body so ready and alert, his mind so clear and lucid. He hoped, he had confidence, and he would have been perfectly happy if he had been dealing with a completely different examining magistrate. M. d’Escorval bothered him and froze him to the point of paralyzing his faculties. Then, with what an air of disdain he had looked him up and down, with what an imperative tone he had imposed silence on him, and that, when he had just praised his work… –But enough!… he said to himself, do we ever have unmixed joy here below!… And he ran… Chapter 11. When, after twenty minutes of running, Lecoq arrived at the entrance to the Choisy road, the postmaster of the Place d’Italie was pacing up and down, pipe between his teeth, in front of his guardhouse. From his worried air, from the anxious glance he threw at each moment on a small window fitted with a lampshade, passers-by must have recognized that he had in a cage, at that moment, some important bird. As soon as he recognized the young policeman, his brow unraveled, and he stopped his stroll. “Well!” he asked, “what news? ” “I bring the order to take the prisoners to the Prefecture.” The station chief immediately rubbed his hands until the skin came off. “Good for them!” he cried, “the prison van will pass by in one o’clock, we’ll pack them in nice and nice, and whip the coachman!” Lecoq was forced to interrupt the expansion of his satisfaction. “Are the prisoners alone?” he asked. “Absolutely alone, the woman on one side, the man on the other… the night hasn’t given… a Shrove Sunday night!… that’s surprising.” It is true that your hunt was interrupted. “You had a drunkard, however. ” “Why! Yes… in fact… this morning, at daybreak… A poor devil who owes a famous candle to Gevrol. ” This word, an involuntary irony, was to revive Lecoq’s regrets. “A famous candle, indeed!” he approved. “It’s certain, although you seem to be laughing: without Gevrol, he would have been crushed. ” “And what became of that drunkard?” The chief of the post shrugged his shoulders. “Ah!… lady! …” he replied, “you’re asking too much of me!…” He was a good man, who had spent the night with friends, and who was dizzy when he came out. He explained this to us when he had sobered up after half an hour. No, I have never seen a man so vexed. He was crying. He kept repeating like this: A father of a family, at my age!… it’s shameful!… What will my wife say!… what will the children think!… –He talked a lot about his wife?… –Nothing but her… He must have even told us her name… Eudoxie, Léocadie… a name like that, always. He believed, the poor fellow, that he was at fault, and that they were going to keep him in prison. He asked to send a messenger to his house. When they told him he was free, I thought he was going to become mentally ill with pleasure, he kissed our hands… And he left!… Ah! He didn’t ask for his rest! The mockery of chance continued. –And you put it with the incident? asked Lecoq. –Of course. –They spoke. –Spoke!… more often! The man was drunk, I repeat, so drunk that he couldn’t even have said: bread. When they put him in the violin, poof!… he fell like a log. As soon as he woke up, they opened the door… No, they didn’t speak. The young policeman had become thoughtful. “That’s right,” he murmured. “You say?” ” Nothing.” Lecoq had no interest in communicating his thoughts to the station chief. They weren’t exactly cheerful… “I had understood,” he thought, “this drunkard, who is none other than the accomplice, has as much skill as audacity and composure. While we were following his tracks, he was spying on us. We move away, he dares to enter the cabaret. Then he comes to get himself caught here, and thanks to a trick of childish simplicity, like all tricks that succeed, he manages to speak to the incident. How perfectly he played his role!… All the police officers were caught out, even though they know they’re drunkards!… But I know he was playing a role, that’s already something… I know we have to take the opposite view of everything he said… He spoke of his family, his wife, his children… so he has neither children, nor wife, nor family… He stopped, he was forgetting himself, it wasn’t the time to get lost in conjectures. “By the way,” he continued aloud, “what was that drunkard like?” “He was a tall, nobody of any kind, papa, ruddy, with white whiskers, a broad face, small eyes, a flat nose, a stupid, jovial air…, a sort of Jocrisse. ” “How old did you think he was? ” “Forty to fifty.” “Do you have any idea of his profession?” “My goodness!… that fellow with his cap and his big brown mac-farlane must be some small shopkeeper or an employee. ” This fairly precise description obtained, it was still as much of a prize; Lecoq was about to enter the guardhouse when a reflection stopped him. “I hope at least,” he said, “that this drunkard hasn’t communicated with Chupin!” The station chief burst out laughing. “Hey!… how could he have!…” he replied. “Is n’t the old woman in her own prison!” Ah! The hussy! Look, it hasn’t been an hour since she stopped screaming and vociferating. No!… in my life, I have never heard horrors and abominations like those she was shouting at us. It was enough to make the cobblestones of the station turn red; even the drunkard was so taken aback that he went to speak to him through the peephole to urge him to be quiet…. The young policeman made such a terrible gesture that the chief of the station stopped short. “What is it?” he stammered. “You’re getting angry… why?” “Because,” replied Lecoq furiously, “because…” And not wanting to admit the real cause of his anger, he entered the station saying that he was going to see the prisoner. Left alone, the chief of the station began to swear in his turn. “These police officers are always the same,” he growled, “all of them.” They question you, you tell them everything they want to know, and then, if you ask them something, they answer: nothing or because!… Pranksters!… They are so lucky, and it makes them proud. No guard, no uniform, freedom… But where has this one gone? With his eye glued to the peephole used by the guards to monitor the prisoners in the violin, Lecoq eagerly examined the incident. One wondered if this was really the same man he had seen a few hours earlier at the Poivrière, standing on the threshold of the communicating door, keeping the patrol in check, inflamed by all the furies of intolerance, his forehead high, his eye sparkling, his lip quivering…. Now, his whole person betrayed the most frightful collapse, self-abandonment, the annihilation of thought, stupor, despair… He was sitting opposite the peephole, on a rough bench, his elbows on his knees, his chin in his hand, his eye fixed, his lip hanging… “No,” murmured Lecoq, “no, this man is not what he appears to be. He had examined him, he wanted to speak to him. He entered, the man raised his head, fixed an expressionless look on him, but said nothing. “Well!…” asked the young policeman, “how are things going?” “I am innocent!” replied the man in a hoarse voice. “I hope so… but that’s the judge’s business. I came to know if you wouldn’t need to take something… ” “No! ” On that very second, the incident changed his mind. “All the same,” he added, “I’d like to have a bite to eat, just to drink a glass of wine. ” “We’ll serve you,” replied Lecoq. He left immediately, and while running around the neighborhood to buy some food, he was imbued with the idea that in asking for a drink after a refusal, the man had only thought of the likelihood of the character he claimed to be playing… Whatever the case, the incident ate with a good appetite. He then poured himself a large glass of wine, drained it slowly, and said: “It’s good!… It feels good wherever it goes.” This satisfaction greatly disappointed the young policeman. He had chosen, as a test, one of those horrible bluish liquids, cloudy, thick, nauseating, which are produced at the barrier, and he expected a nausea, at the very least, from the incident… And not at all!… But he did not have the leisure to seek the conclusions of this fact. A rumbling outside announced the arrival of the Prefecture car, a lugubrious vehicle, which has received among other names that of a salad basket with compartments. The widow Chupin had to be carried into it, who was struggling and shouting about the murderer, then the incident was invited to take his place. There, at least, the young policeman counted on some manifestation of repugnance, and he watched… Nothing. The man got into the dreadful car as naturally as could be, and he even took possession of his compartment like an accustomed person, who knows people and knows which position is the best in such a narrow space. “Ah! the mastiff is strong!” murmured Lecoq, vexed, “but I’ll wait for him at the Prefecture.” Chapter 12. The doors of the prison car were firmly closed, the driver cracked his whip, and the rolling jail set off at a brisk trot with its two vigorous horses. Lecoq had taken his place in the cabriolet arranged in front, between the driver and the Paris guard on duty, and his preoccupation was so great that he certainly heard nothing of their conversation. It was most jovial, although disturbed by the atrocious voice of the widow Chupin, who, raging in her compartment, alternately sang and vomited insults. The young policeman had just glimpsed the means of discovering something of the secret hidden by this incident, which, in his conviction—he would have bet his head on it—must have lived in the higher spheres of society. That this defendant had managed to feign an appetite, that he had overcome the disgust of a nauseating drink, that he had climbed without flinching into the salad basket with compartments, there was nothing positively extraordinary in that on the part of a man endowed with a strong will, and whose imminence of danger and hope of salvation must have increased his energy tenfold . But would he be able to constrain himself in the same way, when he was subjected to the humiliating formalities of imprisonment in the Permanent Prison, formalities which, in certain cases, can and must be pushed to the last outrages?… No, Lecoq could not suppose it. His persuasion was that most certainly the horror of the stigma, the exasperation of all violated delicacies, the revolts of the flesh and of thought, would throw the incident out of himself and wrest from him one of those characteristic words which the investigation seizes upon. It was only when the police van left the Pont-Neuf to take the Quai de l’Horloge that the young policeman seemed to come to his senses.
Soon the heavy machine turned under a porch and stopped in the middle of a narrow and damp courtyard. Lecoq was already on the ground. He opened the door of the compartment where the incident was confined, saying to him: “We have arrived, get out. There was no danger of his escaping.” A gate had closed, and besides, at least a dozen supervisors and agents had approached, curious to see the night’s harvest of rogues. Delivered, the incident had descended nimbly. Once again, his physiognomy had changed. It expressed only the perfect indifference of a man tried by many other hazards. The anatomist, studying the play of a muscle, does not have the passionate attention of Lecoq observing the attitude, the face, the look of the incident. When his foot touched the greenish paving of the courtyard, he seemed to experience a sensation of well-being; he sucked in the air deeply, then he stretched and shook himself violently to restore elasticity to his limbs, numbed by the cramped compartment of the salad basket. This done, he looked around him, and a barely perceptible smile rose to his lips. One would have sworn that this place was not unfamiliar to him, that he had already seen these high blackened walls, these barred windows, these thick doors, these bolts, all this sinister apparatus of the jail. “My God!…” thought Lecoq, moved, “does he recognize himself!…” The young policeman’s anxiety redoubled when he saw the man, without a hint, without a word, without a sign, heading towards one of the five or six doors that opened onto the courtyard. He went straight to the one that should be taken, straight ahead, without a moment’s hesitation. Was it a coincidence? Then it became prodigious, for the incident, having entered a rather dark corridor, walked straight ahead, turned left, passed the guards’ room, left the monkeys’ parlor on the right , and entered the registry. An old convict, a returning horse, as they say on the Rue de Jérusalem, could not have done better. Lecoq felt a cold sweat break out along his spine. “This man,” he thought, “has been here before; he knows people!” The registry was a fairly large room, poorly lit by too-small windows with dusty panes, heated excessively by an iron stove. There was the clerk, reading a newspaper lying on the prison register, a gloomy register, in which are listed and described all those whom misconduct, poverty, crime, a whim, sometimes a mistake, have brought before this low door of the Depot. Three or four guards, waiting for their time of service, were half asleep on wooden benches. These benches, two tables, and a few poor chairs constituted the furniture. In a corner, one could see the measuring rod under which all the accused must pass. Because they are measured, so that the description is complete. At the entrance of the defendant and Lecoq, the clerk raised his head. “Ah!…” he said, “has the car arrived? ” “Yes,” replied the young policeman. And holding out one of the warrants signed by M. d’Escorval, he added: “Here are that fellow’s papers.” The clerk took the warrant, read it, and jumped. “Oh!…” he exclaimed, “a triple murder, oh! oh!…” He positively looked at the defendant with more consideration. He was not an ordinary prisoner, a wicked vagabond, a common rogue. “The examining magistrate orders him to be held incommunicado,” he continued, “and he must be given clothes, his being evidence … Quickly, someone should go and warn the warden, and make the other passengers in the carriage wait… I’m going to lock this fellow up properly.” The warden wasn’t far away, he appeared. The clerk had his register ready. “Your name?” he asked the defendant. “May. ” “Your first names? ” “I don’t have any. ” “What, you don’t have any first names!” The accused seemed to reflect, then with a gruff air: “Actually,” he said, “I might as well tell you not to exhaust yourself questioning me; I’ll only answer to the judge.” You would like to have me cut, wouldn’t you?… What a fine trick!… but I know it… –Note, observed the director, that you are making your situation worse… –Nothing at all!… I am innocent, you want to put me down, I am defending myself. Now pull some words out of my stomach, if you can!… But you had better give me back my money that was taken from me at the police station. One hundred and thirty-six francs and eight sous!… I will need it when I leave here. I want it entered in the register… Where are they?… This money had been given to Lecoq by the head of the police station; with everything that had been found on the incident when it was first searched. He placed everything on a table. “Here is your one hundred and thirty-six francs and eight sous,” he said, “and also your knife, your pocket handkerchief and four cigars…” The most lively contentment was painted on the features of the accused. “Now,” continued the clerk, “will you answer?” But the director had understood the futility of insistence, he signaled to the clerk to be silent, and addressing the man: “Take off your shoes,” he commanded. At this order, Lecoq thought he saw the man’s gaze waver. Was it an illusion? “Why do that?” he asked. “To pass under the measuring rod,” replied the clerk, “I must write down your height.” The accused did not reply; he sat down and took off his leather boots , one of which, the one on the right, had the heel turned completely inward. His feet were bare in his coarse boots. “So you only wear shoes on Sundays?” asked Lecoq. “How do you know that?” “By Jove!… by the mud your feet are covered in up to the ankles.”
“And then!” the man said in the most insolent tone. “Is it a crime not to have feet like a marquise?” “It wouldn’t be your crime, in any case,” the young policeman said slowly. “Do you think I don’t see, despite the mud, how white and clean your feet are? Your nails are neat and filed …
” He broke off. A flash of his investigative genius crossed his mind. He quickly brought forward a chair, spread a newspaper over it, and said to the incident: “Please put your feet there!” The man tried to make a fuss. “Ah!… don’t resist,” the director insisted, “we’re out in force.” The defendant resigned himself. He positioned himself as he had been ordered, and Lecoq, arming himself with a penknife, began to deftly detach the fragments of mud that adhered to his skin. Anywhere else but at the registry of the Depot, one would doubtless have laughed at the task undertaken by Lecoq; a task mysterious, strange, and grotesque all at once. But in this antechamber of the Assize Court, the most futile acts take on a lugubrious hue, laughter easily freezes on the lips, and one is surprised by nothing. All those present, moreover, from the director to the lowest of the guards, had seen others. It even occurred to no one to ask the young policeman what inspiration he was obeying. What was clear, what was established, was that the defendant was going to dispute his identity with the justice system, that it had to be established at all costs, and that Lecoq had probably devised a means of achieving this goal. He had, moreover, promptly finished, and collected from the newspaper the hollow of his hand full of blackish dust. He divided this dust into two parts. He wrapped one in a piece of paper which he slipped into his pocket, and presented the other to the director, saying: “I beg you, sir, to receive this as a deposit and seal it before the eyes of the accused. He must not be able, later, to claim that this dust has been substituted for another.” The director did as he was asked, and while he tied up and sealed this piece of evidence in a small bag, the incident shrugged his shoulders and sneered. It is true that beneath this cynical gaiety, Lecoq thought he could detect a poignant anxiety. Chance owed him the compensation for this small triumph, for subsequent events were to confound all his predictions. Thus, the incident raised no objection when he received the order to undress, to exchange his blood-stained clothes for the costume provided by the administration. Not one muscle in his face betrayed the secret of his soul, while his person was subjected to those ignominious searches which make the most abject scoundrels blush. It was with fierce insensitivity that he allowed the guards to comb his hair and beard, and inspect the inside of his mouth, to make sure that he was not hiding one of those watch springs that cut the strongest bars, nor one of those microscopic fragments of lead pencil, which prisoners use to trace the notes they exchange, rolled in a ball of breadcrumbs , and which they call postilions. The formalities of the prison were completed, the director rang for a guard. “Take this man,” he told him, “to number 3 of the secrets. ” There was no need to drag the accused away. He left as he had entered, preceding the guard, like a regular who knows where he is going. “What a bandit!” exclaimed the clerk. “You think so!” ventured Lecoq, disconcerted but not shaken. “Ah!… there is no doubt about it,” declared the director. This fellow is certainly a dangerous criminal, a repeat offender… I even seem to have had him as a tenant before… I could almost swear. Thus, these people of consummate experience shared Gévrol’s opinion , Lecoq was alone in his opinion. He did not argue, however… what was the point? Besides, the widow Chupin had just been brought in. The journey had calmed her nerves, for she had become gentler than a sheep. It was with a wheedling voice and tears in her eyes that she called these good gentlemen to witness the blatant injustice that was being done to her, an honest woman, well known at the Prefecture. No doubt they were after her family, since already, at that moment, her son Polyte, such a good person, was being detained on charges of a robbery at the bonjour. What would become of her daughter-in-law and her grandson Toto, who had only her for support!… But when they took her away, after she had given her name and first names, once in the corridor, her temper took over again, and she was heard quarreling with the guard. “You’re wrong not to be polite,” she told him, “it’s a good piece you’re losing, not to mention that once you were free I would have invited you to come and have a good drink without paying in my establishment.” It was over, Lecoq was free until the arrival of the examining magistrate. He wandered at first along the corridors and from room to room; but as everywhere he was questioned, disturbed, he went out and went to settle on the platform, in front of the porch. His convictions were not undermined, but his starting point had just been shifted. More than ever he was sure that the incident concealed his social status, but on the other hand it was proven to him that this man knew prison and its customs well. This defendant, moreover, revealed himself to him to be a thousand times stronger than he suspected. What self-control!… What perfection of performance!… He had not flinched during the most atrocious ordeals, and he had deceived the best eyes of Paris… The young policeman had been there for almost three hours, as motionless as the post on which he was sitting, unaware of the cold or the flight of time, when a brougham stopped in front of the porch, and M. d’Escorval got out, followed by his clerk. He stood up and ran to meet them, panting, questioning. “My research on the ground,” the judge told him, “confirms my idea that you were right. Is there anything new?” “Yes, sir, a seemingly trivial matter, but of an importance which… ” “That’s good!” interrupted the judge, “you will explain that to me in a moment. I want first to briefly examine the defendants… a simple matter of form for today. Wait for me here then… ” Although the judge had promised to hurry, Lecoq was counting on at least an hour of guard duty, and he accepted that. He was wrong. Twenty minutes had not passed when M. d’Escorval reappeared… without his clerk. He was walking very quickly, and spoke to the young policeman from a distance. “I must,” he said, “go home… immediately. I don’t then listen to you… –However, sir… –Enough!… the bodies of the victims have been taken to the Morgue… Keep an eye on that side. Then, for this evening, do… Ah! do what you think is useful. –But, sir, I would need… –Tomorrow!… tomorrow!… at nine o’clock, in my office… at the Palace. Lecoq wanted to insist, but M. d’Escorval had already climbed into his coupé, or rather thrown himself into it, and the coachman was whipping the horse. –Now that’s a judge!… murmured the young policeman, who remained speechless on the platform. Is he becoming mentally ill!… And a bad thought crossed his mind: “Or rather,” he added, “doesn’t he hold the key to the enigma?… Doesn’t he want to deprive himself of my services?… This suspicion was so cruel to him that he rushed back in, hoping to get some light from the attitude of the accused, and he ran to put his eye to the wicket in the thick door of secrets. The suspect was lying on the pallet placed opposite the door, his face turned towards the wall, wrapped up to the eyes in the blanket. Was he asleep?… No, because the young policeman noticed a strange movement. This movement, which he could not explain, intrigued him; he put his ear instead of his eye, to the opening, and he distinguished something like a stifled moan!… No more doubt!… the suspect was rattling. “Help me!” cried Lecoq, terrified. “Help!” Ten guards rushed over. “What’s the matter? ” “The prisoner! There… he’s self-harming. ” The door was opened; it was about time. The wretch had torn a strip of his clothing, tied it around his neck, and using a lead spoon brought with his food as a tourniquet, he was choking himself. The prison doctor, who was sent for and bled him, declared that ten minutes more and it would be over, the suffocation being almost complete. When the prisoner came to, he looked around his hut with the look of a mentally ill person. One would have said that he was surprised to feel alive. Then, a large tear sprang from his swollen eyelids, rolled down his cheek, and was lost in his beard. They pressed him with questions… Not a word. “Since that’s how it is,” said the doctor, “he’s in solitary confinement and they can’t give him a companion, they must put him in a straitjacket. ” After helping to swaddle the accused, Lecoq withdrew, all thoughtful and painfully moved. He felt, beneath the mysterious veil of this affair, some terrible drama stirring. “But what happened?” he murmured. “Did this unfortunate man keep quiet, did he confess everything to the judge?… Why this act of despair?… Chapter 13. Lecoq didn’t sleep that night! And yet he had been on his feet for more than forty hours, and he had hardly eaten or drunk anything. But even fatigue, emotions, anxiety, hope, communicated to his body the artificial energy of fever, and to his mind the morbid lucidity that results from exorbitant efforts of thought. It was no longer a question, as in the time when he worked for his protector the astronomer, of pursuing empty deductions. Here, the facts were no longer chimerical. They were only too real, the corpses of the three victims lying on the slabs of the Morgue. But if the catastrophe was materially proven, all the rest was only presumptions, doubts, conjectures. Not a single witness rose to say what circumstances had surrounded, preceded, prepared the dreadful outcome. A single discovery, it is true, should be enough to illuminate this darkness where the investigation, the identity of the incident, was struggling. Who was he? Who was right or wrong, Gevrol, supported by all the people at the Depot, or Lecoq, alone on his side. Gevrol’s opinion was based on formidable proof, the evidence which penetrates the mind through the eyes. The young policeman’s hypothesis rested only on a series of subtle observations and deductions whose starting point was a sentence uttered by the incident. And yet Lecoq no longer had the shadow of a doubt, since a short conversation with the clerk of M. d’Escorval, whom he had met on leaving the Depot. This good fellow, skillfully questioned by Lecoq, had not seen any inconvenience in telling him what had happened in the secret cell, between the accused and the investigating judge. It was, in other words, nothing. Not only had the incident confessed nothing to M. d’Escorval, but he had, the clerk assured him, answered in the most evasive manner the questions put to him, and even, to some, he had not answered. And if the judge had not insisted, it was because for him this first interrogation was only a formality intended to justify the somewhat premature issuance of the arrest warrant. From then on, what should we think of the defendant’s act of despair?… Prison statistics are there to demonstrate that criminals usually—that’s the expression—do not commit suicide. Arrested in the heat of the crime, some are seized by a mad exaltation and have nervous attacks, others fall into a stupid torpor, like that of a sated animal falling asleep, its lips full of blood. But none of them have the idea of attempting to take their own life. They cling to their skin, however compromised it may be, they are cowards, they are soft. The abject Poulman, during his detention, could never bring himself to let a tooth be pulled, which he suffered so much from that he cried. On the other hand, the unfortunate man who in a moment of madness commits a crime almost always seeks to escape the consequences of his act by voluntary death. Therefore, the accused’s aborted attempt was a strong presumption in favor of Lecoq’s system. “It must be,” he said to himself, “that this unfortunate man’s secret is terrible, since he holds it more dear than his life, since he tried to strangle himself to take it intact to the grave.” He stopped, four o’clock was striking. Nimbly he jumped out of bed, into which he had thrown himself fully dressed, and five minutes later, he was walking down the Rue Montmartre, where he was already staying at that time, but in a guest house. The weather was still detestable; it was foggy. But what did it matter to the young policeman!… He was walking briskly when, having arrived at Pointe Saint-Eustache, he was called out by a deep, mocking voice. “Hey!… Pretty boy!…” He looked and saw Gévrol, followed by three of his agents, coming to cast his nets near Les Halles. It’s a good place. It ‘s rare that a few thirsty thieves don’t slip into establishments that stay open all night for market gardeners. “You’re up early, Mr. Lecoq,” continued the security inspector, “you’re always after the identity of our man. ” “Always. ” “Is he a prince in disguise, definitely, or a simple marquis? ” “One or the other, for sure… ” “Good!… In that case, you’ll buy us a round from your future gratuity. ” Lecoq consented, and the little group entered a bar opposite. With their glasses filled: “My goodness!… General,” continued the young policeman, “our meeting saves me a run.” I was planning to go to the Prefecture to ask you, on behalf of the investigating judge, to send one of our colleagues to the Morgue this very morning. The Poivrière affair has caused quite a stir, there will be people there, and it would be a matter of scrutinizing and listening to the curious…. –That’s fine!… Father Absinthe will be there as soon as it opens. Sending Father Absinthe where a subtle agent was needed was a mockery. However, Lecoq did not protest. It was still better to be badly served than betrayed, and he was sure of the man. “No matter!” continued Gévrol, “you should have warned me last night. But when I arrived, you had already left. ” “I had business. ” “Where? ” “At the Place d’Italie. I wanted to know if the station’s violin is paved or tiled. ” With this reply, he paid, bowed, and left. “Thunder!” cried Gévrol, violently setting his glass down on the counter, “damn thunder!” How I dislike that cadet! Nasty rascal! He doesn’t know the ABCs of the trade, and he acts clever. When he finds nothing, he invents stories, and he twists the investigating judges with phrases, to get a promotion. I’ll give you a promotion… in reverse… Ah! I’ll teach you to make fun of me. Lecoq hadn’t been making fun of me. The day before, in fact, he had gone to the police station where the accused had been locked up, he had compared the dust in his pocket to the soil of the violin, and he brought back, he believed, from this expedition one of those damning charges which are often enough for an investigating judge to obtain a complete confession from the most obstinate accused. If he had hurried to give Gévrol the slip, it was because he had a hard job to complete before presenting himself to M. d’Escorval. He claimed to be finding the coachman who had been stopped by the two women on Rue du Chevaleret, and, to this end, he had obtained from the offices of the Prefecture the names and addresses of all the carriage-renters established between the Fontainebleau road and the Seine. The beginnings of his search were not happy. In the first establishment where he presented himself, the stable boys, who were not up, insulted him. The grooms were standing in the second, but not a coachman had arrived. Elsewhere, the boss refused to give him the sheets on which is—or should be, at least—written the daily itinerary of each coachman. He was beginning to despair, when finally, at about seven thirty, at daybreak, at the house of a man named Trigault, whose establishment was located beyond the fortifications, he learned that, during the night of Sunday to Monday, one of the coachmen had had to turn back as he was returning. Even this coachman was shown to him in the courtyard, where he was helping to hitch up his carriage. He was a person of all types, a little old man, with a fiery complexion, a small eye sparkling with cunning, who must have worn out more than one person’s whip handles on the seat . Lecoq walked straight up to him. “Are you,” he asked him, “who, on the night of Sunday to Monday, between one and two in the morning, picked up two women in the Rue du Chevaleret? ” The coachman straightened up, looked at Lecoq with a sagacious look, and cautiously replied: “Perhaps.” “It’s a positive answer I need. ” “Ah! Ah!” said the old man mockingly, “the gentleman doubtless knows two ladies who lost something in a carriage, and so…” The young policeman jumped with joy. This man, evidently, was the one he was looking for, and interrupted him: “Have you heard of a crime in the neighborhood?… ” “Yes, in a one-eyed cabaret, someone was murdered… ” “Well!… these two women were there; they were fleeing when they met you. I’m looking for them; I’m an agent of the security service, here’s my card.” Would you like to give me some information? The coachman had turned pale. “Ah!… the scoundrels,” he cried. “I’m no longer surprised at the tip they gave me. One louis, and two hundred-sou pieces for the fare, thirty francs in all… Money beggars!… if I hadn’t spent it, I’d throw it away… ” “And where did you take them?” “Rue de Bourgogne. I’ve forgotten the number, but I’ll recognize the house. –Unfortunately, they will not have been let down at their house. –Who knows?… I saw them ring; the cord was pulled, and they came in as I was leaving. Do you want me to take you there? For all reply, Lecoq threw himself onto the seat, saying: –Let’s go!… Chapter 14. Should we assume that the women who had escaped from the Widow Chupin’s tavern at the time of the incident were completely devoid of intelligence? No! Was it admissible that these two fugitives, aware of their perilous situation, had been taken to their home by a carriage taken from the public highway? Not yet. So the hope of joining them that the coachman expressed was chimerical. Lecoq said all this to himself, and yet he did not hesitate to climb onto the seat and give the signal: Let’s go. This was because he was obeying an axiom he had forged in his hours of meditation, which was later to ensure his reputation and which he formulated thus: In matters of information, be wary above all of probability. Always begin by believing what seems incredible. On the other hand, by deciding in this way, the young policeman was gaining the good graces of the coachman, and, consequently, more abundant information. Finally, it was a way of being quickly brought back to the heart of Paris. This last calculation was not disappointed. The horse pricked up its ears and lengthened its trot, when its master shouted: Hue, Cocotte! The beast had practiced man and recognized the intonation with which there was no trifling. In less than nothing, the carriage reached the road to Choisy, and then Lecoq resumed his questions. “Come now, my good fellow,” he began, “you’ve told me the story in person, from all sorts of bodies, I need details now. How did these two women accost you? ” “It’s quite simple. I had a hell of a day on Shrove Sunday . Six hours of queueing on the boulevards, and it was raining all the time. What misery!… At midnight, I had a tip of thirty sous, for all the soup. However, I was so worn out, my horse was so tired, that I decided to go home. I was staggering, you should see!… When, on the Rue du Chevaleret, past the Rue Picard, I saw from a distance two women standing under a street lamp. Naturally, I don’t pay any attention to them, because women, when you’re my age… ” “Let’s move on!” interrupted the young policeman. “I do indeed pass in front of them, and when they start calling me: Coachman!… Coachman!… I pretend I don’t hear anything.” But then there’s one running after me, shouting: A louis!… a louis tip! I was thinking, when, to cap it all, the woman added: And ten francs for the fare! Suddenly, I stopped short. Lecoq was boiling with impatience; but he felt that direct and rapid questions would get him nowhere. The wisest thing was to hear everything. “You understand,” continued the coachman, “that you don’t trust two strapping women like that, at this hour, in that neighborhood over there. So, when they approach to get in, I say: Halt!… the little mothers, we promised Papa some money; where are they? Immediately, one of them hands me 30 francs, saying: Above all, have a good train! “Impossible to be more precise,” approved the young policeman. Now, what were these two women like? “You say?” “I ask you who they looked like, who you took them for?” A hearty laugh spread across the coachman’s kind, red face. “Lady!” he replied, “they struck me as two… two not-so-good things. ” “Ah!… And how were they dressed?” “Like the young ladies who go to dance at the Rainbow, you understand. Only one looked well-to-do, while the other… Oh! dear!… what rubbish!” “Which one ran after you? ” “The one who looked pathetic, the one who…” He broke off: so vivid was the memory that crossed his mind that he pulled on the reins until his horse reared. “Thunder!… ” he cried, “wait, I made a remark, at that moment there was one of the two hussy women who called the other Madame, people of all body types like the arm, while the other addressed her informally and bullied her. ” “Oh!” said the young policeman, in three different tones, “oh! oh!…” And which one, please, said: “tu? ” “The badly dressed one. She didn’t have both feet in the same shoe, that one. She shook the other one, the well-to-do one, like a plum tree.” Unhappy woman, she said to him, do you want to ruin us… you’ll faint when we get home, go!… And the other one would reply , whining: True, madam, very true, I can’t! She seemed so unable to, in fact, that I said to myself : There’s someone who’s drunk more than she’s allowed!… These were circumstances, and of extreme importance, which confirmed, by correcting them, Lecoq’s first suppositions. As he had suspected, the social status of the two women was not the same. Only, he had been mistaken in attributing preeminence to the woman with the fine high-heeled boots, whose uneven imprints had revealed her failings to him. This preeminence belonged to the one who had left the traces of her flat shoes, and superior in her condition, she had been superior in her energy. Lecoq was now convinced that of the two fugitives, one was the servant and the other the mistress. “Is that all, my good fellow?” he asked his companion. “Everything,” replied the coachman, “except that I observed that the one who gave me the money, the badly dressed one, had a hand… oh! but a child’s hand, and that despite her anger, her voice was as sweet as music. ” “Have you seen her face?” ” Oh!… so little…” “Finally, can you tell me if she is pretty, if she is brunette or blonde?” So many questions at once stunned the worthy coachman. “Just a minute!” he replied. “In my opinion, she is not pretty, I do not believe her young, but she is certainly blonde, with a lot of hair. ” “Is she short or tall, fat, or people of all types of body? ” “Between the two. ” It was vague. “And the other one,” asked Lecoq, “the wealthy one?” “The devil!… as for that one, I didn’t see or know her, she seemed small, that’s all. ” “Would you recognize the one who paid you, if someone showed her to you? ” “Lady!… no. ” The carriage arrived in the middle of the Rue de Bourgogne; the coachman stopped his horse, saying: “Look out!… This is the house where the two hussies entered… there. ” Taking off the scarf that served as a muffler, folding it, slipping it into his pocket, jumping down, and entering the house indicated, was all the work of an instant for the young policeman. In the concierge’s lodge, an old woman was sewing. “Madame,” said Lecoq politely, offering her his scarf, “I am taking this to one of your tenants. ” “To whom?” “For example, this is what I don’t know.” The worthy concierge thought she understood that this polite young man was a bad joker who pretended to make fun of her. “You dishonest villain,” she began. “Pardon me,” Lecoq interrupted, “let me finish; here is the thing. The night before last, or rather the morning before yesterday, at about three o’clock, I was going home to bed, quietly, when, nearby, two ladies who seemed to be in a great hurry got ahead of me. One of them dropped this… I picked it up, and as was only right, I quickened my steps to give it to her… No use, they had already come in here. At that hour , I did not dare to ring for fear of disturbing you; Yesterday I was busy, but today I’m coming: here’s the object. He placed the scarf on the table and made as if to leave; the concierge held him back. “Many thanks for the kindness,” she said, “but you can keep this. We don’t have women in the house who come home alone after midnight. ” “However,” insisted the young policeman, “I have eyes, I saw… ” “Ah!… I forgot,” cried the old woman. “The night you mentioned, indeed, someone rang here… what a saw! I pulled the cord and listened… nothing. Hearing neither the door closing nor anyone going up the stairs, I said to myself: Good! Another rascal playing a trick on me. The house, you hear me, couldn’t remain open to the first comer. So, without further ado, I put on a petticoat and left the lodge. What do I see?… two shadows darting, bssst… and sticking the door in my face. Quickly I return to pull the cord towards myself, and I run to look in the street… What do I see?… Two women running!… –In which direction?… –They were going towards the rue de Varennes… Lecoq was sure; he civilly greeted the concierge, whom he might still need, and returned to the carriage. –I had foreseen it, he said to the coachman, they don’t stay there. The coachman made a gesture of annoyance. His anger was about to pour out in a flood of words, but Lecoq, who had consulted his watch, interrupted him: –Nine o’clock!… he said, I shall be more than an hour late, but I will bring news… Take me to the morgue, and quickly! Chapter 15. The aftermath of mysterious crimes and catastrophes whose victims have not been recognized are the great days of the Morgue. From the morning, the employees hurry, exchanging jokes that make one shudder. Almost all are very cheerful, due to an urgent need to react against the horrible sadness of what surrounds them. “We will have people today,” they say. And indeed, when Lecoq and his coachman reached the platform, they could distinguish from afar numerous and animated groups stationed around the gloomy monument. The newspapers had reported the affair of the Widow Chupin’s cabaret, and lady! they wanted to see… On the bridge, Lecoq got himself stopped and jumped onto the sidewalk. “I don’t want to get out of the carriage in front of the morgue,” he said. Then, taking out his watch and his purse alternately, he continued: “We have, my good fellow, one hour and forty minutes; therefore, I owe you… –Ah!… nothing at all!… the coachman replied imperiously. –However…
–No!… not a penny. I’m too annoyed to have spent those damned hussy’s money … I wish, look, that what I drank of them had given me colic. So, don’t be shy… if you need a carriage, take mine, for nothing, until you’ve caught the scoundrels. Lecoq wasn’t rich at that time, he didn’t insist. –You did take my name at least, continued the coachman, and my address?…
–Certainly!… The examining magistrate will have to hear your statement. You’ll receive a summons… –Well! That’s it… Papillon (Eugène), coachman, at M. Trigault’s… I’m staying with him, because, you see, I’m a bit of a partner. The young policeman was already moving away, Papillon called him back. “When you left the Morgue,” he said, “you’ll be going somewhere… you told me you had an appointment, and that you were even late. ” “No doubt they’re expecting me at the Palais de Justice, but it’s just a stone’s throw away… ” “No matter… I’ll wait for you at the corner of the quay. Ah!… there’s no point in saying no, I’ve got it in my head and I’m Breton. It’s a favor I’m asking you: keep me at least for the thirty francs of the naughty girls. It would have been cruel to reject this request. Lecoq therefore made a gesture of assent and quickly headed towards the Morgue. If there were so many people around, it was because the sinister establishment was full, and there was a queue, literally. Lecoq, to get in, had to use his elbows energetically. Inside, it was hideous. Yes, hideous enough to make one wonder what disgusting emotions these ferocious onlookers were seeking there. There were women in great numbers, young girls too. The little workers who, on their way to their work, are obliged to pass by the area, make a detour to come and contemplate the harvest of unknown corpses that crime, car accidents, the Seine and the Canal Saint-Martin produce daily. The most sensitive remain at the door, the intrepid enter, and on leaving recount their impressions. When there is no one there, when the slabs are idle, they are not happy… It is unbelievable. But that morning there was a full house. All the slabs, except two, were occupied. The atmosphere was infamous. An unhealthy cold fell on the shoulders, and above the crowd hovered a kind of foul fog, impregnated with the acrid odor of chlorine, intended to combat miasmas. And to the whispers of the conversations, interspersed with cheers and sighs, were mingled, like a continuous accompaniment, the murmur of the taps, placed at the head of each slab, and the dull lapping of the water as it flowed and fell, splashing. Through the small arched windows, the light slid palely over the exposed bodies, emphatically highlighting the muscles, accentuating the marbling of the greenish flesh, and sinisterly illuminating the rags hanging around the amphitheater, horrible cast-offs that are supposed to help with reconnaissance, and which, after a while, are sold… for nothing is wasted. But the young policeman was too lost in thought to notice the hideousness of the spectacle. He barely glanced at the three victims of the day before yesterday. He looked for Father Absinthe and did not find him. Had Gevrol, intentionally or not, failed to keep his promises, or had the old man from the Rue de Jérusalem forgotten his morning drink and drunk the order? In desperation, Lecoq addressed himself to the head of the guards. “It seems,” he asked, “that no one has yet recognized a single one of the unfortunates from the other night’s affair. ” “No one!… And yet, since the opening, we have had a world of mentally ill people. You see, if I were the master, on days like today, I would charge two sous per person at the door, half a seat for the children, and we would make a huge profit… we would cover the costs… ” This idea, thus put forward, was a bait presented to the conversation. Lecoq did not grasp it. “Excuse me,” he interrupted. “Didn’t they send you an agent from the security service this morning? ” “Indeed. ” “Then where has he gone?… I don’t see him.” The warden, before answering, eyed this persistent questioner suspiciously, and finally, in a hesitant tone, he said: “Are you one of them?” This phrase was thrown into circulation at a time when filthy agents provocateurs flourished under the Restoration; it applied only to the police. One was where one was not. The phrase survived the circumstances. “I am one of them,” replied the young policeman, showing his card to support his assertion. “And your name is?” “Lecoq.” The head warden’s face suddenly became smiling: “In that case,” he said, “I have a letter for you, which has just been given to me by your comrade, who was forced to be absent…” Here it is: The young officer immediately broke the seal and read: Monsieur Lecoq… Sir!… This simple polite formula brought a slight smile to his lips. Was it not, on the part of Father Absinthe, the explicit recognition of his colleague’s superiority? The young policeman guessed there a canine devotion that he must repay with this affectionate protection of the master for his first disciple. However, he continued his reading: Monsieur Lecoq, I had been on guard since the opening, when around nine o’clock three young men came in arm in arm. They had the appearance and type of store employees. Suddenly , I saw one of them turn whiter than his shirt, and point out to the others one of our strangers from Chupin’s, saying: Gustave!… Immediately his comrades put their hand over his mouth, repeating: Will you shut up, you damned beast, what are you interfering with, do you want to cause us trouble? With that they leave, and I go out after them. But the one who had spoken was so moved that he could no longer drag himself along, so the others led him into a small dive. I went in too, and that’s where I’m writing you this letter, all the while keeping an eye on them. The head warder will give you this paper which will explain my absence. You understand that I’m going to tail these fellows. ABS. This letter was in almost indecipherable handwriting, spelling mistakes intertwined from line to line, but it was clear and precise, and must have aroused the most flattering hopes. Lecoq’s face was beaming when he got back into the carriage, and while urging his horse on, the old coachman could not refrain from asking questions. “It’s going as you wish,” he said. A friendly shush! was the young policeman’s only reply. He didn’t have all his attention to coordinate his new information in his mind. Having got down in front of the gate of the palace, he had great difficulty in dismissing the old coachman, who absolutely insisted on remaining at his command. He succeeded, however, but he was already under the left-hand porch when the old man, standing on his seat, was still shouting to him: “At M. Trigault’s!… don’t forget!… Father Papillon… number 998,–1,000 less 2…” Having reached the third floor of the left wing of the Palace, at the entrance to that long, narrow, and dark gallery called the gallery of instruction, Lecoq addressed a bailiff seated behind an oak desk. “M. d’Escorval is doubtless in his study,” he asked. The bailiff shook his head sadly. “M. d’Escorval,” he replied, “did not come this morning and he will not come for months… ” “What do you mean?” –Last night, getting out of his coupé at his door, he fell so unfortunately that he broke his leg. Chapter 16. One is rich, one has a carriage, horses, coachman…, and when one passes sprawled on the cushions, one receives more than one envious glance. But then the coachman, who has had one drink too many, spills the carriage, or the horses run away and smash everything, or the lucky master, in a moment of preoccupation, misses the step and shatters his leg on the corner of the sidewalk. Such accidents happen every day, and indeed, their long list must be, for humble pedestrians, a reason to bless their modest fortune, which protects them from such adventures. Nevertheless, on learning of M. d’Escorval’s misfortune, Lecoq looked so completely crestfallen that the bailiff could not help bursting out laughing . –What do you see so extraordinary in this? he asked. “Me?… nothing.” The young policeman was lying. He had just been struck by the bizarre coincidence of these two events: the attempted self-harm incident and the fall of the investigating judge. But he did not give in to the vague presentiment that shuddered in his mind time to take shape. What connection between these two facts?… Besides, he did not foresee any harm for himself, quite the contrary, and he had not yet enriched his formulary with an axiom that he later professed: To be extraordinarily wary of all circumstances that appear to favor our secret desires. It is certain that Lecoq was far from rejoicing at M. d’Escorval’s accident, he would have given anything with all his heart for the injury to have no consequences… Only, he could not help telling himself that he found himself, by the chance of this misfortune, freed from relations that seemed terribly painful to him, with a man whose disdainful haughtiness had, as it were, crushed him. All these various motives combined were the cause of a frivolity for which he had to bear the penalty. “So,” he said to the usher, “I have no business here this morning.” “Are you joking?… Since when has the convent been idle for lack of a monk!… It has been more than an hour since all the urgent matters with which Monsieur d’Escorval was charged were distributed among the examining magistrates. “I’ve come for that big case from the day before yesterday… ” “Hey!… why didn’t you say so! They’re expecting you, and they’ve even sent a boy to ask for you at the Prefecture. It’s Monsieur Segmuller who’s investigating…” The young policeman’s brow furrowed. He tried to remember which of the judges bore that name, and whether he hadn’t already been in contact with him. “Yes,” continued the bailiff, who was in a talkative mood, “Monsieur Segmuller… Don’t you know him?… There’s a good man, and he doesn’t always have a sullen expression like almost all our gentlemen.” It was of him that a defendant said upon leaving interrogation: That devil has dragged so much out of me that I shall certainly have my neck cut; but it doesn’t matter, he’s a good fellow! It was with his heart cheered by these auspicious details that the young policeman went to knock on the door that had been indicated to him, and which bore the number 22. “Open up!” shouted a well-pitched voice. He entered, and found himself facing a man of about forty, quite tall, a little plump, and who said to him first of all: “Are you Agent Lecoq?… Perfect!… Sit down, I’ll take care of the case, I’ll be with you in five minutes.” Lecoq obeyed, and slyly, with the perspicacity of awakened interest , he began to study the judge whose collaborator he was going to become… much as the bloodhound is the collaborator of the hunter. His exterior agreed perfectly with the bailiff’s words. Frankness and benevolence shone on his broad face, well lit by very gentle blue eyes. However, the young policeman imagined that it would be imprudent to trust absolutely these benign appearances. He was not wrong. Born near Strasbourg, Mr. Segmuller used in the exercise of his delicate functions that candid physiognomy given to almost all the children of fair Alsace, a deceptive mask which frequently conceals a Gascon finesse coupled with the formidable prudence of the Cauchois. Mr. Segmuller’s mind was most penetrating and alert , but his system—every judge has his own—was bonhomie. While some of his colleagues remained as stiff and sharp as the sword placed in the hand of the statue of Justice , he affected simplicity and roundness, without, however, ever altering the austerity of his character as a magistrate. But his voice had such paternal intonations, he veiled so well with naivety the subtlety of the questions and the import of the answers, that the person he questioned forgot to be on his guard and let himself go. And when within himself he applauded himself for the Little malice from the judge, the accused was already inside out. Near such a man, a clerk of all body types and serious would have maintained distrust ; so he had selected one, who was like his caricature. His name was Goguet. He was short, obese, beardless and smiling. His broad face expressed, no longer bonhomie but silliness, and he was reasonably silly. As he had said, Mr. Segmuller was studying the case that had unexpectedly arrived there. On his desk were spread out all the pieces of evidence gathered by Lecoq, from the woolen flake to the diamond earring . He read and reread the report written by Lecoq, and, following the various sentences, he examined the objects placed in front of him or consulted the plan of the land. After not five minutes, but a good half hour, he pushed back his chair. “Sir,” he said, “Mr. d’Escorval warned me in a note in the margin of the file that you are an intelligent man and that you can be trusted. ” “At least I have the good will. ” “Oh! You have better than that; this is the first time I have been brought a work as complete as your report. You are young; if you persevere, I believe you are destined to render great service. ” The young policeman bowed, stammering, pale with pleasure. “Your conviction,” Mr. Segmuller continued, “from that moment becomes mine. It was, the Imperial Prosecutor told me, that of Mr. d’Escorval. We are faced with an enigma, it is a question of deciphering it. ” “Oh!… we shall succeed, sir?” cried Lecoq. He felt himself capable of extraordinary things, he was ready to pass through the fire, for this judge who welcomed him so well. The enthusiasm shining in his eyes was such that Mr. Segmuller could not help smiling. “I have good hope,” he said, “me too, but we are not at the end of the road… Now, you, since yesterday, have you acted? Had Monsieur d’Escorval given you orders?… Have you gathered any new clues?… “I believe, sir, I have not wasted my time.” And immediately, with rare precision, with a felicity of expression that never fails one who knows his subject well, Lecoq recounted everything he had overheard since leaving La Poivrière. He described the bold steps taken by the man he believed to be the accomplice, his own observations on the incident, his aborted hopes and his attempts. He recounted the depositions of the coachman and the concierge, he read Father Absinthe’s letter. Finally, he placed on the desk the few pinches of earth he had so singularly procured, and beside them an almost equal quantity of dust which he had gone to collect with the violin from the Place d’Italie. Then, when he had explained what reasons had made him act, and the advantage that could be taken of his precautions: “Ah! you are right!” cried M. Segmuller, “it may be that we have here a means of disconcerting all the denials of the accused… It is, certainly, on your part, a stroke of surprising sagacity. ” It had to be so, for Goguet, the clerk, approved. “Blimey!…” he murmured, “I wouldn’t have found that one, I!” While talking, M. Segmuller had hidden away in a large drawer all the pieces of evidence, which were only to appear in due time. “Now,” he said, “I have enough information to question the widow Chupin. Perhaps we can get something out of it.” He stretched out his hand toward a bell pull, Lecoq made an almost supplicating gesture. “I have, sir,” he said, “a favor to ask of you.” “What?… speak. ” “I would consider myself very lucky if I were allowed to be present at the interrogation… It takes so little, sometimes, to awaken a happy inspiration. The law says that the accused will be questioned secretly by the judge assisted by his clerk, but it nevertheless allows the presence of law enforcement officers. “Very well,” replied Mr. Segmuller, “stay. ” He rang, a bailiff appeared. “Has the Widow Chupin been brought in according to my orders?” he asked. “She is there, in the gallery, yes, sir. ” “Let her come in.” The next moment, the innkeeper made her entrance, bowing from right to left, with many curtsies and salutations. She was no longer in her debut before an examining magistrate, the Widow Chupin, and she was not unaware of the great respect owed to justice. So she had dressed for the interrogation. She had smoothed her unruly gray hair into flat bands and had made the most of the clothes she was wearing. She had even obtained from the director of the Depot the purchase, with the money found on her at the time of her arrest, of a black crepe cap and two white handkerchiefs, in which she intended to cry her heart out at moments of pathos. To assist these cosmetic artifices, she had drawn from her repertoire of grimaces, a little innocent, unhappy and resigned air, entirely appropriate, according to her, to win the good graces and indulgence of the magistrate on whom her fate would depend. Thus disguised, with lowered eyes, a honeyed voice, and a wheedling gesture, she resembled so little the terrible landlady of the Poivrière that her practical associates would have hesitated to recognize her. On the other hand, on her appearance alone, an old and honest bachelor would have offered her twenty francs a month to take charge of her housekeeping. But Mr. Segmuller had unmasked many other hypocrisies, and the idea that came to him was the one that shone in Lecoq’s eyes. “What an old actress!” His perspicacity, it is true, must have been singularly aided by some notes he had just read. These notes were simply the file on the widow Chupin sent as information to the public prosecutor’s office by the Prefecture of Police. His examination completed, the examining magistrate signaled to Goguet, his smiling clerk, to prepare to write. “Your name?” he asked the defendant abruptly. “Aspasie Clapard, my good sir,” replied the old woman, “Widow Chupin, at your service.” She sketched a beautiful curtsy, and added: “A legitimate widow, of course, I have my marriage papers in my chest of drawers, and if they want to send someone… ” “Your age?” interrupted the judge. –Fifty-four years old. –Your profession?… –A publican, in Paris, very close to the Rue du Château-des-Rentiers, a stone’s throw from the fortifications. These questions of individuality are the obligatory beginning of any interrogation. They give the defendant and the judge time to study each other, to feel each other out, so to speak, before engaging in serious combat, like two adversaries who, on the point of fighting with swords, would try a few passes with speckled foils. –Now, continued the judge, let us deal with your background. Have you already been convicted several times? … The old recidivist was sufficiently familiar with criminal procedure not to be unaware of the mechanism of this famous criminal record, one of the marvels of French justice, which makes denials of identity so difficult. –I have had misfortunes, my good judge, she whined. –Yes, and quite a few. First of all, you were prosecuted for receiving stolen goods. –But I was sent away whiter than snow. My poor deceased had been deceived by comrades. –Very well. But it was you who, while your husband was serving his sentence, was sentenced for theft to a month in prison the first time, and to three months afterwards. “I had enemies who were angry with me, neighbors who gossiped … ” “Lastly, you were convicted of leading underage girls into disorder… ” “Naughty girls, my good dear sir, heartless little things…” ” I did them a favor, and then they went and told lies to harm me… I’ve always been too good.” The list of the honest widow’s misfortunes was not exhausted, but Mr. Segmuller thought it pointless to continue. “That’s the past,” he continued. “As for the present, your tavern is a den of criminals. Your son is on his fourth conviction, and it has been proven that you encouraged and favored his detestable inclinations. Your daughter-in-law, by some miracle, has remained honest and hardworking, so you overwhelmed her with so much mistreatment that the district commissioner had to intervene.” When she left your house, you wanted to keep her child… to raise him like his father, no doubt. It was, thought the old woman, the moment to be moved. She took her new handkerchief from her pocket, still stiff from dressing, and tried, rubbing her eyes vigorously, to force a tear from her eyes… One could have just as easily extracted one from a piece of parchment. “Misery!…” she moaned, “to suspect me, me, of thinking of leading my grandson, my poor little Toto, to evil!… I am worse than wild beasts, I would want the perdition of my own blood!… But these lamentations seemed to touch the judge only very little ; she noticed this, and abruptly changing her system and tone, she began her justification. She didn’t deny anything positively, but she blamed everything on fate, which is not fair, which favors some, often not the best, and overwhelms others. Alas! she was one of those who are unlucky, having always been innocent and persecuted. In this last affair, for example, where was her fault? A triple incident had bloodied her tavern, but the most honest establishments are not immune to such a catastrophe. She had had time to reflect, in the silence of secrets, she had searched to the last folds of her conscience, and yet she was still wondering what reproaches could reasonably be addressed to her…. “I can tell you,” interrupted the judge: “you are accused of obstructing the action of the law as much as possible in you….” “Is it, God!… possible!…” “And of seeking to mislead justice. That is complicity, Widow Chupin, take care.” When the police arrived, at the very moment of the crime, you refused to answer. “I told you everything I knew. ” “Well!… you must repeat it to me. Mr. Segmuller must have been pleased. He had conducted the interrogation in such a way that the widow Chupin was naturally led to begin the story of the facts herself. This was a crucial point. Direct questions might have enlightened this old woman, so shrewd, who kept her composure, and it was important that she suspect nothing of what the investigation knew or did not know. By leaving her to her own inspiration, we should obtain in its entirety the version that she intended to substitute for the truth. This version, neither the judge nor Lecoq doubted, must have been coordinated at the police station at Place d’Italie, between the incident and the fake drunkard, and then transmitted to Chupin by this bold accomplice. –Oh!… the thing is quite simple, my good sir, began the honest tavern owner. Sunday evening, I was alone by my fireside, in the lower room of my establishment, when suddenly the door opened, and I saw three men and two ladies enter. Mr. Segmuller and the young policeman exchanged a quick glance. The accomplice had seen the fingerprints taken, so there was no attempt to to dispute the presence of the two women. “What time was it?” asked the judge. “About eleven o’clock. ” “Continue.” “As soon as I sat down,” continued the widow, “these people ordered me a bowl of French wine. Without boasting, I have no equal in preparing this drink. Naturally, I served them, and immediately afterward, as I had blouses to mend for my boy, I went up to my room on the first floor. ” “Leaving these individuals alone? ” “Yes, my judge. ” “That was, on your part, a great deal of confidence.” The widow Chupin shook her head sadly. “When you have nothing,” she said, “you don’t fear thieves. ” “Continue, continue… ” “So, then, I had been upstairs for half an hour when someone started calling me from downstairs: ‘Hey, old woman!’ I go downstairs, and I find myself face to face with a tall, very bearded individual, who had just entered. He wanted a small glass of fil-en-quatre… I serve him, alone at a table. “And you come back up?” interrupted the judge. Was Chupin’s irony understood? Her face didn’t let it be guessed. “Precisely, my good sir,” she replied. “Only, this time, I had hardly picked up my thimble and needle, when I heard a terrible uproar in my room. Dare, dare, I rush down my stairs, to put a stop to it… Ah! well, yes!… The first three to arrive had fallen upon the last one, and they were beating him up, my good sir, they were massacring him… I shout… it’s as if I were singing.
But then the individual who was alone against three takes a pistol out of his pocket; he shoots and kills one of the others, who rolls to the ground… I, in fear, fall sitting on my stairs, and to avoid seeing, because the blood was flowing, I lift my apron over my head… The next moment, Monsieur Gévrol arrived with his agents, they broke down my door, and there it was… These odious old women, who have trafficked in all the vices and drunk in all the shames, sometimes reach a perfection of hypocrisy that can put the most subtle penetration at fault. An unprejudiced man, for example, could have been taken in by the candor of the widow Chupin, so much naturalness did she put into it, so opportunely did she find the right intonation of frankness, surprise or fright. Unfortunately, she had her eyes against her, her small gray eyes, mobile like those of the restless beast, where happy cunning lit sparks. It was that she was rejoicing, within herself, in her happiness and her skill, not being far from believing that the judge believed her statements. In fact, not one of the muscles of Mr. Segmuller’s face had betrayed his impressions during the old woman’s story, a story delivered with prestigious volubility. When she stopped, out of breath, he stood up without saying a word and approached his clerk to supervise the drafting of the report of this first part of the interrogation. From the corner where he sat modestly, Lecoq continued to observe the accused. “She thinks, however,” he said to himself, “that it’s over, and that her deposition will go through like a letter in the post.” If such was, in fact, the widow Chupin’s hope, she was soon disappointed. Mr.
Segmuller, after a few brief remarks to the smiling Goguet, came and sat down near the fireplace, judging that the moment had arrived to push the interrogation briskly. “So, Widow Chupin,” he began, “you affirm that you did not remain for a single instant near the people who had come to drink at your house? ” “Not a minute.” “They came in and ordered, you served them and hurried out. ” “Yes, my good sir. ” “It seems impossible to me, however, that you did not overhear a few words of their conversation. What were they talking about?” “It’s not my habit to spy on my practices. ” “Well, have you heard anything? ” “Nothing.” The examining magistrate shrugged his shoulders with a commiserating air. “In other words,” he continued, “you refuse to enlighten the justice system. ” “Oh!… if one can say so… ” “Let me finish. All these improbable stories about going out, about your son’s blouses to be mended in your room, you only invented them so that you could answer me: I saw nothing, heard nothing, I know nothing. If that is the system you are adopting, I declare that it is untenable and would not be admitted by any court. ” “It is not a system, it is the truth.” Mr. Segmuller seemed to collect himself, then suddenly: “You definitely have nothing to tell me about this miserable assassin?” “But he’s not a murderer, my good sir…” “What do you claim?” “Lady! He killed the others in self-defense. They were picking a quarrel with him, he was alone against three men, he saw clearly that he had no mercy to expect from brigands who…” She stopped short, completely taken aback, doubtless reproaching herself for having allowed herself to be led astray, for having been too long-winded. She could hope, it was true, that the judge had noticed nothing. A firebrand had just rolled from the hearth, he had taken the tongs and seemed preoccupied only with the care of artistically reconstructing the collapsed edifice of his fire. “Who will tell me,” he murmured, “between high and low, who will guarantee me that it was not this man, on the contrary, who attacked the other three… ” “I,” declared the widow Chupin bluntly, “I, who swear it!…” Mr. Segmuller straightened up, as apparently astonished as possible. “How can you know,” he said, “how can you swear? You were in your room when the quarrel began.” Grave and motionless in his chair, Lecoq was inwardly jubilant. He thought it was a fine result, and one that looked promising, to have, in eight questions, brought this old rogue to a recantation. He also told himself that the proof of the connivance was clear. Without a secret interest, the old innkeeper would not have so imprudently taken up the defendant’s defense. “After that,” the judge continued, “perhaps you speak from what you know of the nature of the incident; you probably know him. ” “I had never seen him before that evening. ” “But he had already been to your establishment? ” “Never in his life. ” “Oh! Oh!… how do you explain then that, entering the downstairs room, while you were in your room, this stranger, this foreigner, began to shout: “Hey!… old woman!” So he guessed that the establishment was run by a woman, and that this woman was no longer young? “He didn’t shout that.” “Recall your memories; you yourself just told me. ” “I didn’t say that, my good sir. ” “Yes… and we’ll prove it to you by reading your interrogation again… Goguet, read it, please.” The smiling clerk quickly found the passage, and in his best voice he read the Chupin’s sentence verbatim: “I had been upstairs for half an hour, when from downstairs someone started calling me: Hey!… old woman! I’m coming down, etc., etc. ” “You see!” insisted Mr. Segmuller. The old recidivist’s self-confidence was noticeably diminished by this failure. But far from insisting, the judge glossed over this incident, as if he had not attached much importance to it. “And the other drinkers,” he continued, “those who were killed, did you know them?” “No, sir, neither from Adam nor Eve. ” “And you were not surprised to see three strangers arrive at your house, accompanied by two women? ” “Sometimes chance… ” “Come on!… you don’t mean what you say. It’s not the chance that can bring customers at night, in dreadful weather, to a disreputable cabaret like yours, and located above all quite far from any busy road, in the middle of wasteland…. –I am not a witch; what I think, I say. –So, you don’t even know the youngest of these unfortunates, the one who was dressed as a soldier, Gustave, finally? –Not at all. Mr. Segmuller noted the intonation of this response, and more slowly he added: –At least, you have heard of a friend of this Gustave, a certain Lacheneur? At this name, the confusion of the hostess of the Poivrière was visible, and it was in a deeply altered voice that she stammered: –Lacheneur?… Lacheneur?… I have never heard that name pronounced. She denied it, but the effect remained, and to himself, Lecoq swore that he would find this Lacheneur, or that he would perish in the process. Was there not, among the evidence, a letter from him, written, as we knew, in a café on Boulevard Beaumarchais? With such a clue and patience… “Now,” continued M. Segmuller, “we come to the women who accompanied these unfortunates. What sort of women were they?… “Oh!… girls of no account at all. ” “Were they richly dressed?… “Very miserably, on the contrary. ” “Good!… give me their description. ” “It’s that… my good judge, I hardly saw them… Anyway, they were two tall, powerful women, so badly built that, at first, as it was Shrove Sunday, I took them for men disguised as women.” They had hands like the shoulders of sheep, a broken voice, and very black hair . They were brown like mulattoes, that’s what struck me most…. “Enough!” interrupted the judge; “I now have proof of your egregious bad faith. These women were small, and one of them was remarkably blond. ” “I swear to you, my good sir…” ” Don’t swear, I would be forced to confront you with an honest man who would tell you that you were lying.” She didn’t reply, and there was a moment of silence; Mr. Segmuller was deciding to strike the big blow. “Will you also maintain,” he asked, “that you had nothing compromising in your apron pocket? ” “Nothing… It can be searched and searched; it’s still at my house.” Didn’t this assurance, on this point, betray the influence of the fake drunkard?… “So,” continued Mr. Segmuller, “you persist… You are wrong, believe me. Think about it… Depending on how you act, you will go to the assizes as a witness… or as an accomplice. ” Although the widow seemed crushed by this unexpected blow, the judge did not insist. Her interrogation was read to her again, she signed it and left. Mr. Segmuller immediately sat down at his desk, filled out a form and handed it to his clerk, saying: “Here, Goguet, is an extraction order for the director of the Depot. Go and tell them to bring me the incident.” Chapter 17. Extracting a confession from a man interested in remaining silent, and convinced that there is no evidence against him, is certainly difficult. But to ask a woman the truth in such conditions is to want, they say at the Palace, to pretend to confess the devil. So, as soon as M. Segmuller and Lecoq found themselves alone, they looked at each other with an air that expressed their anxiety, and how little hope they retained. In short, what positive had this interrogation produced, conducted with the dexterity of a judge who knows how to arrange and handle his questions, as a general knows how to maneuver his troops and make them give appropriate answers? It produced irrefutable proof of the Widow Chupin’s connivance, and nothing more. “That hussy knows everything!” murmured Lecoq. “Yes,” replied the judge, “it has almost been demonstrated to me that she knows the people who were at her house, the women, the victims, the incident, all of them. But it is certain that she knows this Gustave… I read it in her eye. It has been proven to me that she knows who this Lacheneur is, this unknown man on whom the dying soldier wanted revenge, this mysterious character who very evidently has the key to this enigma. It is this man who must be found…. “Ah! I will find him,” cried Lecoq, “when I have to question the eleven hundred thousand men who are walking around Paris! ” That was promising a lot, to the point that the judge, in spite of his preoccupations, allowed himself to laugh. “If only,” continued Lecoq, “if only this old witch would decide to speak at her next interrogation!… ” “Yes! but she will not speak. ” The young policeman nodded. That was indeed his opinion. He was under no illusions; He had recognized between the widow Chupin’s eyebrows those creases that betray the stupid obstinacy of the brute. “Women never speak,” the judge continued, “and when they seem to resign themselves to revelations, it is because they hope to have found an artifice that will lead the investigations astray. Evidence, at least, crushes the most stubborn man; it breaks his arms and legs, he stops struggling, he confesses. Woman, however, mocks evidence. Show her the light, she closes her eyes and replies: It is night. Turn her head towards the sun, which dazzles her with its rays and blinds her, and she persists and repeats: It is night. Men, depending on the social sphere in which they were born, imagine and combine different systems of defense. Women have only one system, whatever their condition. They deny it all the same, always, and they cry. When, at the next interrogation, I push Chupin, be sure she will find tears… In his impatience, he stamped his foot. He had searched his arsenal of means of action, but he could not find a weapon to break this stubborn resistance. “If only I had an idea of the motive guiding this old woman,” he continued. “But not a clue! Who will tell me what powerful interest commands her silence!… Could it be her cause that she is defending?… Is she an accomplice? Who can prove to us that she did not help the incident to plan an ambush? ” “Yes,” Lecoq replied slowly, “yes, that supposition naturally presents itself to the mind. But to accept it, does it not mean rejecting the premises admitted by the judge?… If Chupin is an accomplice, the incident is not the person we suspect, he is simply the man he appears to be. ” The objection seemed to convince Mr. Segmuller. “What, then?” he cried, “what!…” The young policeman’s mind was made up. But could he, the humble security agent, decide when a magistrate hesitated? He understood how much reserve his position imposed on him, and it was in the most modest tone that he said: “Why shouldn’t the fake drunkard have dazzled Chupin by making her eyes shine with the most magnificent hopes? Why shouldn’t he have promised her money, a large sum?” He broke off; the clerk was returning. Behind him came a guard from Paris who remained respectfully on the threshold, his heels on the same line, his right hand on the visor of his shako, his palm out, his elbow at eye level… according to the order. “Sir,” this soldier said to the judge, “the director of the prison has sent me to ask you if he should keep the widow Chupin in solitary confinement; She despairs of this measure. Mr. Segmuller collected himself for a moment. “Certainly,” he murmured, responding to some revolt of his conscience, ” certainly, it is a terrible aggravation of punishment, but if I let this woman communicate with the other prisoners, an old recidivist like her will surely find an expedient to make to send notices outside… This cannot be, the interests of justice and truth must come before everything. This last consideration prevailed. “It is important,” he ordered, “that the accused remain incommunicado until further notice.” The Paris guard dropped his saluting hand, placed his right foot three inches behind his left heel, turned around, and walked away at an ordinary pace. The door closed, the smiling clerk took a large envelope from his pocket. “Here,” he said, “is a communication from the director.” The judge broke the seal and read aloud: “I cannot advise the investigating judge too strongly to take serious precautions when questioning the accused Mai.
Since his failed attempt at self-harm, this accused has been in such a state of excitement that he has had to be kept in a straitjacket.” He hasn’t closed his eyes all night, and the guards who watched over him expected madness to break out at any moment. However, he hasn’t uttered a word. When they offered him food this morning, he rejected it with horror, and I wouldn’t be far from believing he intends to starve himself to death. I have rarely seen a more dangerous criminal. I believe he is capable of going to the most dreadful extremes…. “Good heavens!” exclaimed the clerk, his smile fading. “If I were the judge, I would have the soldiers come in and bring that fellow in. ” “What!… it’s you, Goguet,” said Mr. Segmuller gently, “you, an old clerk, who talks like that.” Are you afraid?… “Afraid, me?… Certainly not, but…” “Bast!” interrupted Lecoq, in a tone that betrayed his confidence in his prodigious vigor, “am I not here! ” Just by sitting down at his desk, M. Segmuller would have had a kind of rampart between the accused and himself. He usually kept to it; but after his clerk’s startled expression, he would have blushed at appearing afraid. So he placed himself near the fire, as he had the moment before, when he was questioning Chupin, and rang the bell to give the order to bring the man in, alone. He insisted on the word: alone. The next second, the door opened with terrible violence, and the man entered, or rather rushed into the office. The bull escaping from the slaughterhouse, after being missed by the butcher’s mace, has this frantic appearance, these wild , disordered movements. Goguet turned pale behind his table, and Lecoq took a step, ready to spring forward. But, having reached the middle of the room, the man stopped, casting a piercing glance around him. “Where is the judge?” he asked in a hoarse voice. “I am the judge,” replied Mr. Segmuller. “No… the other one.” “What other one? ” “The one who came to question me last night. ” “He had an accident. When he left you, he broke his leg. ” “Oh!… ” “And I am the one replacing him…” But the defendant seemed unable to hear. His frantic exaltation was suddenly succeeded by a mortal annihilation. His features, tense with rage, relaxed. He had become livid, he was tottering… “Recover yourself,” the judge told him in a kindly tone, “and if you feel too weak to remain standing, take a seat…” Already, with a prodigious display of energy, the man had straightened up. Even a flame, immediately extinguished, had shone in his eyes…. “Many thanks for your kindness, sir,” he replied, “but it will be nothing… I had a kind of dazzling flash, it has passed. ” “Perhaps it has been a long time since you ate?… ” “I have not eaten since this one,” he pointed at Lecoq, ” brought me bread and ham, at the violin, over there. ” “Do you feel the need to take something?” “No!… Although, however… if it were an effect of your kindness…” I would like a glass of water. “Would you like some wine with it?” “I prefer pure water.” They brought him what he asked for. He immediately poured himself a first glass, which he swallowed in one gulp, then a second, which he emptied slowly. It was as if he were drinking life. He seemed reborn. Chapter 18. Of twenty defendants who arrive at the hearing, at least eighteen present themselves armed with a complete system of defense, conceived and discussed in the silence of secrets. Guilty or innocent, they have adopted a role that begins the moment when, with beating hearts and dry throats, they cross the threshold of the formidable chamber where the investigating magistrate awaits them. This moment of the defendant’s entry is therefore one of those where the judge brings into play the full power of his insight. The man’s attitude must betray the system, like a table summarizing the contents of a volume. But here, Mr. Segmuller did not, he believed, have to be wary of deceptive appearances. It was obvious to him that the defendant could not have thought of feigning, that the disorder of his arrival was as real as his present annihilation. At least, all the dangers of which the director of the Depot had spoken had been averted. The judge therefore went to sit in his office. He felt more at ease there, and, so to speak, stronger. There, he turned his back to the day, his head disappeared into the shadows, and if necessary, he could, simply by bending down, conceal a surprise, an overly vivid impression. The defendant, on the contrary, remained in full light, and not one of the twitches of his face, not one of the flutters of his eyelids could escape serious attention. He then seemed completely recovered, and his features had resumed the carefree immobility of resignation. “Are you feeling quite better?” Mr. Segmuller asked him. “I’m very well. ” “I hope,” the judge continued paternally, “that you will be able to moderate yourself now. Yesterday, you tried to kill yourself. It would have been a great crime added to the others, a crime which… ” With a sudden gesture, the defendant interrupted him. “I did not commit a crime,” he said, his voice still rough, but no longer threatening. “When attacked, I defended my skin, which is everyone’s right. There were three of them on me, madmen… I killed so as not to be killed. It is a great misfortune, and I would give my hand to repair it, but my conscience does not reproach me for that. ” That… was the snapping of his thumbnail under his teeth. ” However,” he continued, “I was arrested and treated like a murderer.” When I saw myself all alone in this stone coffin that you call the secret, I was afraid, I lost my mind. I said to myself: But, my boy, you were buried alive, it is a question of dying, and quickly, if you do not want to suffer. At that, I tried to strangle myself. My death did no harm to anyone, I have neither wife nor children who rely on the work of my hands, I belong to myself. Which does not prevent that after the bleeding, they tied me in a canvas sack, like a mentally ill person… Mentally ill person! I thought that I would become one. All night the jailers were after me, like children tormenting a chained animal. They felt me, they looked at me, they passed the candle before my eyes… All this was delivered with a feeling of deep bitterness, but without anger, violently, but without declamation, like all things that one feels very keenly. And the same reflection came at the same time to the judge and the young policeman. “This one,” they thought, “is very strong, we will not get the better of him easily. ” After a minute of meditation, Mr. Segmuller continued: “One can explain, to a certain extent, a first movement of despair in the prison. But later, this very morning, you have refused the food that was offered to you…. The man’s dark face suddenly lit up at this question, his eyes gave a comical twinkle, and finally he burst out laughing, a good laugh, very gay, very frank, very sonorous. –That, he said, is another matter. Certainly, I refused everything, but you will see why… I had my hands full, and the guards intended to make me eat like a baby being given porridge by its nurse… Ah! but no… I pressed my lips together with all my might. Then one of them tried to force my mouth open to shove the spoon in, like opening the mouth of a sick dog to force it to swallow medicine… Lady!… I tried to bite that one, it’s true, and if his finger had been between my teeth, it would have stayed there. And that’s why they all started throwing up their arms to the sky, and saying , pointing at me: “There’s a formidable criminal, a proud scoundrel!” This memory seemed very pleasing to him, for he began to laugh even more, to the great astonishment of Lecoq, to the great scandal of the good Goguet, the clerk. For his part, Mr. Segmuller had great difficulty in completely concealing his surprise. “You are too reasonable, I hope,” he said finally, “to hold a grudge against men who, in attaching you, were obeying their superiors, and who, moreover, were only seeking to save you from your own fury. ” “Hum!” said the accused, becoming serious again, “I still hold a little grudge against them, and if I kept one of them in a corner… But it will pass, I know myself, I have no more gall than a chicken. ” “Besides, it depends on you to be treated well; Be calm, and they won’t put you in the straitjacket again. But you have to be calm… The incident shook his head sadly. “So I’ll be good,” he said, “although it’s terribly hard to be in prison when you’ve done nothing wrong. If I were with some comrades, we’d talk, and time would pass… But to stay alone, all alone, in this cold hole, where you can’t hear a thing… it’s dreadful. It’s so damp that the water runs down the wall, and you’d swear they were real tears, human tears coming out of the stone…” The examining magistrate had leaned over his desk to take a note. That word: comrades, had struck him, and he intended to have it explained later. “If you’re innocent,” he continued, “you’ll soon be released, but your innocence must be established. ” “What must I do for that?” “Tell the truth, the whole truth, answer the questions I put to you with complete sincerity, without reservations, without ulterior motives. ” “For that, you can count on me.” He was already raising his hand as if to call God and men to witness his good faith. Mr. Segmuller ordered him to lower it, adding: “Defendants do not take an oath. ” “Well!” the man said with an astonished air, “that’s funny!” While seeming to let the defendant lose his way, the judge did not lose sight of him. He had wanted above all, by these preliminaries, to reassure him, to put him at ease, to dispel as much of his suspicions as possible, and he considered that the goal he had set for himself had been achieved. “Once again,” he continued, “give me your full attention, and do not forget that your freedom depends on your frankness. What is your name? ” “May.”
“What are your first names? ” “I don’t have any.” “It’s impossible.” A movement from the defendant betrayed an impatience that was immediately controlled. “This,” he replied, “is the third time I’ve been told that since yesterday. It’s true, however. If I were a liar, nothing would be so simple as to tell you that my name is Pierre, Jean, or Jacques… But lying isn’t my style. True, I don’t have any first names. If it were nicknames, that would be something else; I’ve had many.” –Which ones?… –Let’s see… to begin with, when I was at Father Fougasse’s, they called me the Sharpener, because, you see… –Who was this Father Fougasse? –The king of men when it came to wild beasts, Your Honor. Ah!… he could boast of owning a menagerie, that one. Tigers, lions, parrots of all colors, snakes, no one of every type of body like the thigh, he had everything. Unfortunately, he also had an acquaintance who ate everything. Was he joking, or was he speaking seriously? It was so difficult to discern that Mr. Segmuller and Lecoq were equally undecided. Goguet, while timing the interrogation, was laughing. –Enough!… interrupted the judge, how old are you? –Forty-four or five. –Where were you born?… –In Brittany, probably. This time, Mr. Segmuller thought he had discovered an ironic intention that it was important to suppress. “I warn you,” he said harshly, “that if you continue like this, your freedom is seriously compromised. Each of your answers is an impropriety. ” The most sincere desolation, mixed with anxiety, was painted on the features of the incident. “Ah!… there is no offense, Your Honor,” he moaned. “You question me, I answer… You would see that I speak the truth, if you let me tell you my little affair.” Chapter 19. A talkative defendant, a well-instructed case, says an old proverb of the Court. It seems impossible, in fact, that a guilty person, spied on by the judge, can talk a lot without his tongue betraying his intention or his thoughts, without something of the secret he claims to keep evaporating. The simplest among the defendants have understood this. Also, forced into a prodigious mental restraint, they are generally more than reserved. Locked in their system of defense, like a turtle in its shell, they leave it as little as possible and with the most touchy circumspection. Under interrogation, they answer, it is necessary, but it is as if reluctantly, briefly, they are sparing with details. Here, the accused was prodigal with words. Ah!… he did not seem afraid of cutting himself. He did not hesitate, like those who tremble to dislocate with a word the novel they strive to substitute for the truth. In other circumstances, this would have been a presumption in his favor. “Explain yourself then!” replied Mr. Segmuller to the indirect request of his defendant. The incident did not skillfully conceal the joy caused him by the freedom granted to him. The brightness of his eyes, the swelling of his nostrils, revealed a satisfaction like that of a romance singer being dragged to the piano. He stood with his head back, like a fine speaker sure of his means and his effects, ran his tongue over his lips to moisten them, and said: “So, it’s my story you’re asking me? ” “Yes.”
“For now, Your Honor, you will know that one fine day, forty-five years ago , Father Tringlot, director of a troupe for flexibility, strength, and dislocation, was going from Guingamp to Saint-Brieuc by the main road. Naturally, he was traveling in his two large carriages, with his wife, his equipment, and his artists. Very well. But then, shortly after passing a person of all types of body from a village named Chatelaudren, looking from right to left, he saw something white swarming on the side of a ditch. I must see what it is, he said to his wife. He stopped, got out, went to the ditch, picked it up, and let out a cry. You will ask me: What had this man found? Oh! my God! It’s very simple. He had just found your servant, then about ten months old. He bowed to everyone with these last words. “Naturally,” he continued, “Father Tringlot took me to his wife, a very good woman, all the same. She took me, examined me, felt me, and said: He is strong, this kid, and well-bred; we must keep him, since his mother had the abomination to abandon him. I will give him lessons, and in five or six years he will do us honor. Thereupon, they began to look for a name for me. It was the first days of the month of May; it was decided that I should be called Mai, and Mai I have been since that day, without a first name.” He broke off, and his gaze rested successively on his three listeners, as if he were seeking approval. Approval not forthcoming, he continued: “He was a simple man, Father Tringlot, and ignorant of the laws. He did not declare his discovery to the authorities. In this way, I lived, but I didn’t exist, since you have to be registered in a town hall register to exist. As long as I was a kid, I didn’t worry about that. Later, when I was about sixteen, when I came to think of the man’s negligence, I rejoiced inwardly . I said to myself: But, my boy, you’re not listed on any government register , so you won’t be drawing lots, consequently you won’t be going to be a soldier. It wasn’t at all my idea to be a soldier, I wouldn’t have signed up for a cannonball. Much later still, after I’d passed the age of conscription, a lawyer told me that if I asked for a civil status they’d hurt me . So, I decided to exist as a contraband. Being nobody has its good and bad sides. I didn’t serve, it’s true, but I never had any papers. Ah!… that got me into prison more often than I deserved. But since, ultimately, I was never at fault, I always got away with it… And that’s why I don’t have a first name, and why I don’t know exactly where I was born… If the truth has a particular accent, as moralists have written, the incident had found that accent. Voice, gesture, look, expression, everything was in agreement: not a word of his long narration had clashed. “Now,” said Mr. Segmuller coldly, “what are your means of existence?” From the crestfallen expression of the incident, one would have sworn that he had counted on his eloquence opening the doors of prison for him. “I have a profession,” he replied piteously, “the one Mother Tringlot showed me .” I live off it, and I have lived off it in France and other countries . The judge thought he found a chink in his armor. “Have you lived abroad?” he asked. “A little!… I have been working for sixteen years, sometimes in Germany, sometimes in England, with Mr. Simpson’s troupe. ” “So you are a mountebank. How is it that with such a profession your hands are so white and well-groomed? ” Far from appearing embarrassed, the defendant spread his hands and examined them with visible complacency. “It’s true, at least,” he said, “that they are pretty… it’s because I take care of them. ” “So they keep you doing nothing? ” “Ah!… but no!… Only, Your Honor, I am here to speak to the public, to turn the compliment, to make the sales pitch , as they say… and, without flattering myself, I have a certain ability. Mr. Segmuller stroked his chin, which is his habit when he suspects a defendant is getting bogged down. “In that case,” he said, “please give me a sample of your talent. ” “Oh!” said the man, seeming to think it was a joke, “oh!” ” Please obey,” insisted the judge. The incident no longer defended itself. At that very second, his mobile physiognomy took on an entirely new expression, a singular mixture of stupidity, impudence, and irony. Instead of a stick, he took a ruler from the judge’s desk, and In a false and shrill voice, with buffoonish intonations, he began: Silence, music!… And you, the bass drum, peace !… Here, ladies and gentlemen, is the hour, the instant and the moment of the great and unique performance of the Théâtre des Prestiges, without equal in the world for the trapeze and the tightrope dance, the elevations and the dislocations, and other exercises of grace, suppleness and strength, with the assistance of artists from the capital who had the honor…. “That’s enough!” interrupted the judge, “you were saying that in France, but in Germany?…” “Naturally, I speak the language of the country.” “Come now!” commanded Mr. Segmuller, whose mother tongue was German . The defendant abandoned his foolish air, put on a comical face, and without a shadow of hesitation he resumed in the most emphatic tone: Mit Bewilligung der hochlöblichen Obrigkeit wird heute vor hiesiger ehrenwerthen Bürgerschaft zum erstenmal aufgeführt … Genovefa, oder die…. [Note: With the permission of the local authority, will be represented before the honorable bourgeoisie , for the first time… Geneviève or the…] –Enough!… said the judge harshly. He stood up, perhaps to hide his disappointment, and added: –We will go and get an interpreter, who will tell us if you express yourself as easily in English. Lecoq, at these words, advanced modestly: –I speak English, he said. –Then, very well. You heard me, warned… The man had already transformed once again. British phlegm and gravity were painted on his face, his gestures had become stiff and measured. It was in the most serious tone that he said: Ladies, and Gentlemen, Long life to our queen, and to the honorable mayor of that town. No country, England excepted,—our glorious England!—should produce such a strange thing, such a paragon of curiosity… [Note: Ladies and gentlemen. Long life to our queen and to the honorable mayor of that town. No country, England excepted,—our glorious England!—could produce such a strange thing, such an example of curiosity!…] For another minute, he spoke without interruption. Mr. Segmuller leaned on his desk with his forehead in his hands, Lecoq barely concealed his stupor. Only Goguet, the smiling clerk, was having fun… Chapter 20. The director of the Depot, that civil servant whose twenty years of experience with prisons and prisoners gave him the authority of an oracle, that observer so difficult to surprise, had written to the investigating judge: Surround yourself with precautions before questioning the accused Mai. Not at all! Instead of the dangerous criminal whose mere announcement had made the clerk turn pale, they found a sort of practical philosopher, harmless and jovial, vain and smooth-talking, a man of tricks, a clown, in short! The disappointment was strange. However, far from inspiring Mr. Segmuller with the temptation to abandon Lecoq’s starting point, it drove the young policeman’s system deeper into his mind. If he remained silent, his elbows on the shelf of his desk, his hands crossed over his eyes, it was because, in this position, simply by spreading his fingers, he could, at leisure, study his man. The attitude of this incident was inconceivable. His English compliment finished, he remained in the middle of the office, his face astonished, half pleased, half worried, but as at ease as if he had been on the trestle where he said he had spent half his life. And, summoning all his intelligence and penetration, the judge tried to grasp something, a clue, a thrill of hope, a contraction of anguish, on this mask more enigmatic in its mobility than the bronze face of the sphinxes. Until then, Mr. Segmuller had been losing. It is true that he had not yet seriously attacked. He had not used any of the weapons Lecoq had forged for him. But spite was getting the better of him, it was easy to see, from the abrupt way in which he raised his head after a moment. “I recognize it,” he said to the defendant, “you speak the three great languages of Europe fluently. It is a rare talent. ” The defendant bowed, a proud smile on his lips. “But that does not establish your identity,” the judge continued. “Do you have any guarantors in Paris?… Can you name an honorable person who guarantees your individuality? ” “Eh!… sir, it is sixteen years since I left France and I have been living on the highways and at fairs… ” “Don’t insist; prevention cannot be satisfied with these reasons. It would be too easy to escape the consequences of one’s antecedents.” Tell me about your last boss, Mr. Simpson… Who is this character? “Mr. Simpson is a rich man,” replied the defendant in a bruised tone, ” more than two hundred thousand francs rich, and honest. In Germany, he works with a puppet theater; in England, he puts on phenomenal shows, according to the taste of the countries… ” “Well!… this millionaire can testify in your favor; it must be easy to find him. At that moment, Lecoq no longer had a single piece of dry thread on him; he has since confessed. In ten words, the defendant would confirm or reduce to dust the assertions of the investigation… ” “Certainly,” he replied emphatically, “Mr. Simpson can only say good things about me. He is well enough known to be found, only it will take time. ” “Why?” “Because, at this moment, he must be on his way to America.” It was this very voyage that made me leave him… I fear the sea. The anxieties whose sharp claws tore at Lecoq’s heart flew away. He breathed. “Ah!…” said the judge in three different tones, “ah!… ah!…” “When I say he’s on his way,” the defendant continued quickly, “it may be that I’m mistaken, and that he hasn’t left yet. What is certain is that he had arranged all his affairs to embark when we parted. ” “On which ship was he to take passage? ” “He didn’t tell me. ” “Where did you part? ” “In Leipzig, in Saxony… ” “When?” “Last Friday.” Mr. Segmuller shrugged his shoulders disdainfully… “You were in Leipzig on Friday, were n’t you?” he said. “Since Sunday, at four o’clock in the evening.” “That’s what would have to be proven.” From the contraction of the incident’s face, one must have assumed a powerful effort of memory. For nearly a minute, he seemed to be searching, alternately looking at the ceiling and the floor, scratching his head, stamping his foot. “How to prove,” he murmured, “how?” The judge grew tired of waiting. “I’ll help you,” he said. “The people at the inn where you were staying in Leipzig must have noticed you?” “We didn’t stay at the inn. ” “Where did you eat, sleep?” “In Mr. Simpson’s big carriage, it was sold, but he was not to deliver it until the port where he embarked. ” “What is that port?” “I don’t know.” Less accustomed than the judge to keeping his impressions secret, Lecoq could not help rubbing his hands. He saw his accused convicted of lying, pressed against the wall, according to his expression. “So,” continued Mr. Segmuller, “you have nothing to offer to justice but your single statement?” “Wait then,” said the accused, stretching his arms out in front of him as if he could grasp a still vague inspiration in his hands, ” wait then… When I arrived in Paris, I had a trunk.” “Then what?” “It’s full of linen marked with the first letter of my name. Inside I have overcoats, trousers, two suits for my profession…
” “Go on. ” “So then, getting off the railway, I took this trunk to a hotel very close to the station…” He stopped short, visibly disconcerted. “The name of this hotel?” asked the judge. “Alas!… sir, that’s precisely what I’m looking for, I’ve forgotten it. But I haven’t forgotten the house; I seem to remember it still, and if someone took me to the vicinity, I would certainly recognize it. The people at the hotel would rescue me, and besides, my trunk would be there as evidence. ” Lecoq promised himself a little preliminary investigation in the hotels surrounding the Gare du Nord. “Very well,” said the judge, “perhaps we’ll do what you ask.” Now two questions: How, having arrived in Paris at four o’clock, did you find yourself at midnight at La Poivrière, a den of criminals, located in the middle of wasteland, impossible to find at night if you don’t know it?… Secondly, how, having all the belongings you mention, were you so miserably dressed?… The man smiled at these questions. “You will understand, Your Honor,” he replied. “When you travel third class, you wear out your clothes, that is why, at the start, I put on the worst I had. When I arrived, when I felt the cobblestones of Paris under my feet, I became mentally ill like no other; I had money, it was Shrove Sunday, I thought only of carousing, and not at all of changing. Having once amused myself at the Barrière d’Italie, I ran there and went into a wine merchant’s. While I was having a bite to eat, two people near me were talking about spending the night at the Rainbow Ball. I asked them to take me there, they agreed, I bought a round of drinks, and we left. But at this ball, the young people having left me to dance, I began to get bored to death. Annoyed, I went out, and not wanting to ask for directions, a stupid thing to do, I got lost in a large plain without houses. I was about to retrace my steps when I saw a light not far off; I walked straight towards it… and I arrived at this accursed cabaret. –How did things happen? –Oh!… quite simply. I went in, I called out, someone came, I asked for a glass of hard liquor, they served me, I sat down, and I lit a cigar. Then I looked around. The place was so horrible it made my flesh crawl. At a table, three men and two women were drinking and talking quietly. It seems they don’t like my face. One of them gets up, comes to me, and says: You’re with the police, you came here to spy on us, your case is clear. I reply that I’m not , he tells me that I am, I maintain that I’m not…, yes… no… In short, he swears that he’s sure of it and that I even have a fake beard. At that, he grabs my beard and pulls it. He hurts me, I stand up, and bang, with a blow from the stamp I knock him to the ground. Woe!… Here are the others on me… I had my revolver… you know the rest. –And the two women, meanwhile, what were they doing?… –Ah!… I had too much work to do to worry about them!… They ran off. –But you saw them when you arrived… What were they like?… –They were, by Jove!… two ugly little women, built like carabinieri and black as moles!… Between plausible lies and improbable truths, justice, a human institution, that is to say, subject to error, must opt for verisimilitude. For the past hour, however, Mr. Segmuller had been doing precisely the opposite. So he was not without anxiety. But his last doubts dissipated like fog in the sun when the defendant declared that the two women were tall and black. According to him, this bold assertion demonstrated the cordial understanding of the incident and Chupin. It betrayed a novel imagined to mislead the investigation. He concluded that, beneath these appearances so skillfully accumulated, existed facts all the more serious as more care was taken to hide them from any assessment. If the man had said: The women were blonde, Mr. Segmuller would no longer have known what to believe. Certainly, his satisfaction was immense, but his face remained impenetrable. It was important to leave the defendant with the idea that he was playing the prevention card. “You understand,” the judge told him in a tone of perfect good nature, ” how important it would be to find these two women. If their testimony agreed with your allegations, your position would be significantly improved.” “Yes, I understand that, but how can we get our hands on it?” “The police are here… their agents are at the service of the accused as soon as it comes to putting them in a position to establish their innocence. Have you made any observations that might clarify the description and facilitate the search?” Lecoq, whose eye never left the accused, thought he caught a smile rising on his lips. “I haven’t noticed anything,” he said coldly. For a moment, Mr. Segmuller had opened his desk drawer. He took out the earring he had picked up at the scene of the crime, and abruptly presented it to the man, saying: “So you didn’t notice this in the ears of one of the women?” The imperturbable insouciance of the accused was not altered. He took the earring, examined it carefully, held it up to the light, admired its sparkle, and said: “It’s a beautiful stone, but I hadn’t noticed it. ” “This stone,” insisted the judge, “is a diamond. ” “Ah!… ” “Yes, and worth several thousand francs. ” “That much!” This exclamation was well in the spirit of the role, but the incident did not manage to put the appropriate naivety into it, or rather he exaggerated it. A nomad like him, who had traveled to all the capitals of Europe, should not have been so amazed at the value of a diamond. However, Mr. Segmuller did not abuse the advantage he had gained. “Another thing,” he said. When you threw down your weapon, shouting: Come and get me, what were your intentions?… –I was planning to flee…. –Which way?… –Lady!… sir, by the door, by… –Yes, by the back door, said the judge with icy irony. It remains to explain how you, who were entering this tavern for the first time, were aware of this exit. For the first time, the eye of the accused was troubled, his assurance disappeared, but it was only a flash, and he burst out laughing, but a false laugh, barely concealing his anguish. –What a farce!… he replied, I had just seen the two women slipping away that way… –Pardon!… you have just declared that you did not notice the women leaving, that you had too much work to monitor their movements. –Did I say that?… –Word for word; the passage will be read to you. Goguet… read. The clerk read, but then the man began to dispute the meaning of his expressions… He hadn’t said, he claimed, certainly he hadn’t meant to say… he had been misunderstood… Lecoq was in heaven. –You, my good man, he thought, you’re arguing, you’re floundering, you’re lost… The reflection was all the more apt, since the situation of a defendant before the investigating magistrate can be compared to that of a man who, not knowing how to swim, has advanced into the sea until the water is up to his mouth. As long as he keeps his balance, everything is fine. Does he stagger?… Immediately he loses his footing. If he struggles and splashes, it’s over; he swallows a mouthful, the next wave rolls; he wants to shout, he drinks…, he is drowned. “Enough,” said the judge, whose questions were going to multiply and cover all points, “enough.” How, going out with the intention of amusing yourself, did you have in one of your pockets the revolver that is here? “I had it on me for the road, I no more thought of leaving it at the hotel than of changing my clothes. ” “Where did you buy it?” “It was given to me by Mr. Simpson, it is a souvenir. ” “You must agree,” remarked the judge coldly, “that this Mr. Simpson is a convenient character. Anyway, let us continue: Only two shots from this formidable weapon were discharged and three men are dead. You have not told me the end of the scene. ” “Alas!…” said the man in an emotional tone, “what good is it!… Two of my enemies overthrown, the game became equal.” So I grabbed the last one, the soldier, by the body, and pushed him… He fell on the corner of a table and did not get up again. Mr. Segmuller had unfolded on his desk the plan of the cabaret drawn by Lecoq. “Come closer,” he said to the accused, “and specify on this paper your position and that of your adversaries. ” The man obeyed, and with a certainty somewhat surprising in a man of his apparent condition, he explained the drama. “I entered,” he said, “by this door marked C, I sat at table H, which is on the left as you enter; the others occupied this table which is between the fireplace F and the window B.” When he had finished: “I must,” said the judge, “pay tribute to the truth that your statements agree perfectly with the findings of the doctors, who recognized that one of the shots had been fired at point- blank range and the other from a distance of about two meters.” A common defendant would have triumphed. The man, on the contrary, gave an imperceptible shrug of his shoulders. “That proves,” he murmured, “that these doctors know their job. ” Lecoq was pleased. As a judge, he would not have conducted the interrogation any differently. He blessed heaven, which had given him Mr. Segmuller instead of Mr. d’Escorval. “That settled,” the judge continued, “it remains for you, defendant, to tell me the meaning of a sentence you uttered when the officer here knocked you down. “A sentence?” “Yes!… you said: ‘It’s the Prussians coming, I’m lost!’ What did that mean?” A fleeting blush colored the cheekbones of the incident. It became clear that he had anticipated all the other questions and that this one took him by surprise. “It’s very surprising,” he said with ill-disguised embarrassment, “that I said that!” He was obviously gaining time, looking for an explanation. “Five people heard you,” the judge insisted. “After all,” the man continued, “it’s possible. It’s a phrase that an old man in Napoleon’s guard used to repeat, who, after the Battle of Waterloo, had entered Mr. Simpson’s service… ” The explanation, though late, was nonetheless ingenious. So Mr. Segmuller seemed satisfied with it. “That may be,” he said; “but there is one circumstance that is beyond my comprehension. Were you rid of your adversaries before the police patrol entered?… Answer yes or no. ” “Yes.” “So, how come, instead of escaping through the exit you guessed existed, you remained standing on the threshold of the communicating door, with a table in front of you as a barricade, your weapon pointed at the agents, to keep them in check? ” The man lowered his head, and his answer was delayed. “I was like no one mentally ill,” he stammered, “I didn’t know if it was police agents who were arriving or friends of those I had killed. ” “Your interest dictated that you flee both.” The incident died down. “Well!” continued Mr. Segmuller, “prevention supposes that you knowingly and voluntarily exposed yourself to being arrested, to protect the retreat of the two women who were in this cabaret. “So I would have risked myself for two hussy women I didn’t know ?” ”
Pardon!… Prevention has strong reasons to believe that, on the contrary, you know these two women very well. ” “That, for example!… if someone proves it to me!” He sneered, but the laughter was frozen on his lips by the tone of assurance with which the judge said, punctuating the syllables: “I-will-prove-it-to-you!” Chapter 21. These delicate and thorny questions of identity which, at every moment, recur , are the despair of justice. The railways, photography, and the electric telegraph have multiplied the means of investigation; in vain. Every day it still happens that clever criminals succeed in hiding the true personality of judges, and thus escape the consequences of their antecedents. It was to this extent that a witty attorney general once said laughingly—and perhaps he was only half joking: The confusion of personalities will not cease until the day when the law prescribes that a serial number be branded with a hot iron on the shoulder of every child registered at the town hall. Certainly, Mr. Segmuller would have wished this serial number for the enigmatic defendant who was there before him. And yet, he did not despair, and his confidence, if it was exaggerated, was not feigned. He thought that this circumstance of the two women was the weak side of the system of the incident, the point where he should concentrate his efforts. He abandoned it, nevertheless, imbued with the correct theory that at a first interrogation, no question should be dealt with in depth. When he judged that his threat had produced its effect, he continued: “So, being warned, you affirm that you do not know any of the people who were in the tavern? ” “I swear it.” “You have never had occasion to see an individual whose name is mixed up in this deplorable affair, a certain Lacheneur? ” “I heard this name for the first time, when the dying soldier pronounced it, adding that this Lacheneur was a former actor… ” He himself, of all types of bodies, sighed, and added: “Poor soldier!… I had just given him the death blow, and his last words were the testimony of my innocence.” This little sentimental movement left the judge very cold. “Consequently,” he asked, “you accept the deposition of this soldier?” The man hesitated, as if he had smelled a trap and calculated the answer. “I accept!” he said at last; “enough!” “Very well.” This soldier, you must remember, wanted revenge on Lacheneur, who, by promising him money, had drawn him into a plot. Against whom was this plot?… Against you, obviously. On the other hand, you claim to have arrived in Paris only that very evening , and to have been brought to the Poivrière only by the greatest of chances… Reconcile that. The defendant dared to shrug his shoulders. “I,” he said, “see things differently. These people were plotting a dirty trick against I don’t know who, and it was because I was in their way that they picked a quarrel with me over nothing. The judge’s move was a good one, but the parry was better; so much so that the smiling clerk could not hide an approving grimace. He, first of all, was always on the defendant’s side… platonically, of course.
” “Let us move on to the events that followed your arrest,” Mr. Segmuller continued. Why did you refuse to answer any questions? A flash of real resentment or command flashed in the incident’s eye. “That’s quite enough of an interrogation,” he grumbled, “to make a guilty man of an innocent man!” The coarse man reappeared under the mocking and good-natured clown. “I urge you, in your own interest,” said the judge sternly, “to remain decent. The officers who arrested you observed that you were aware of all the formalities and that you knew the people in the prison. ” “Hey! Sir, didn’t I tell you that I had been caught and imprisoned several times, always for lack of papers… I’m telling the truth, therefore you won’t make me cut myself, go on!” He had laid aside his mask of mocking insouciance, and now affected a gruff and discontented tone. However, he was not at the end of his troubles; the serious attack was only just beginning. Mr. Segmuller placed a small canvas bag on his desk : “Do you recognize this?” he asked. “Perfectly!… it’s the package that was sealed at the registry by the director.” The judge opened the bag and emptied the dust it contained onto a sheet of paper. “You are aware, I have been warned,” he said, “that this dust comes from the mud that covered your feet up to the ankle. The police officer who collected it went to the station where you spent the night, and he noted that the dust and that covering the floor of the violin were perfectly consistent. ” The man listened, his mouth open. “So,” the judge continued, “it was certainly at the station, and on purpose, that you soiled yourself. What was your plan? ” “I wanted… ” “Let me finish. Resolved, to keep your identity secret , to assume the individuality of a man from the lowest classes of society, of a mountebank, you reflected that the searches for your person would betray you. You foresaw what people would think when they made you undress at the registry, and they would see feet emerge from dirty, coarse, worn boots, like the ones you were wearing, neat as your own… for they are neat as your hands, and yours have been filed . What did you do then? You threw the contents of the violin jug onto the ground, and you stamped in the mud… During this indictment, the man’s face expressed by turns anxiety, the most comical astonishment, irony, and finally frank gaiety. At the end, he seemed forced to give in to one of those fits of laughter of a mentally ill person that interrupts speech. “That’s what it is,” he said, addressing not the judge, but Lecoq, ” that’s what happens when you look for noon at two o’clock.” Ah!… officer, you have to be astute, but not that much… The truth is that when I was put in the station, it had been forty-eight hours, thirty-six of which were spent on the train, since I had taken off my shoes. My feet were red, swollen, and they burned like fire. What did I do? I poured water over them… As for the rest, if my skin is soft and white, it’s because I take care of myself… Moreover, like all the people in my profession, I never wear anything but slippers… It’s so true that I didn’t have a single pair of boots of my own when I left Leipzig, and that Mr. Simpson gave me this old pair that he no longer wore… Lecoq beat his chest. “Silly me,” he thought, “imbecile, giddy, idiot… It was necessary to wait for the interrogation to speak of this circumstance. When this very strong man saw me gathering this dust, he guessed my intentions, he looked for an explanation, and he found it… and it is plausible, a jury would admit it. This is precisely what Mr. Segmuller said to himself. But he was neither surprised nor shaken by such presence of mind. “Let us summarize,” he said. “Do you persist, prejudiced, in your assertions? ” “Yes, sir. ” “Well!… I am forced to tell you, you are lying.” The man’s lips trembled very visibly, and he stammered: “May my first mouthful of bread choke me if I have told a single lie. ” “Just one!… wait.” The judge took the photographs taken by Lecoq from his drawer and presented them to the witness. “You told me,” he continued, “that the two women were as tall as cuirassiers… Now, here are the prints left by these tall women. They were as black as moles, you claim; a witness will tell you that one of them, small and pretty, has a soft voice and is wonderfully blond. ” He looked for the man’s eyes, found them, and slowly added: “And this witness is the coachman whose carriage the two fugitives took in the Rue du Chevaleret…” This sentence was like a knockout blow to the defendant; he turned pale, staggered, and was forced to lean against the wall to avoid falling. “Ah!… you told me the truth!” continued the merciless judge. ” What then is this man who was waiting for you while you were at the Poivrière? What is this accomplice who, after your arrest, dared to enter the tavern to retrieve some compromising piece of evidence, a letter, no doubt, which he knew was in the Widow Chupin’s apron pocket? What is this friend, so devoted and so bold, who was able to feign drunkenness to the point that the deceived police officers locked him up with you? Will you maintain that you did not coordinate your defense plan with him? Do you affirm that he did not subsequently secure Chupin’s assistance?…
But already, thanks to a superhuman effort, the man had regained his self-control. “All this,” he said in a hoarse voice, “is a police invention !… However faithful one supposes the record of an interrogation to be, it no more conveys its exact physiognomy than cold ashes convey the sensation of a bright fire. One can note down the slightest words; one cannot translate the movement of passion, the expression of the face, the calculated reticence, the gesture, the intonation, the glances that meet, laden with suspicion or intolerance, finally the moving and terrible anguish of a mortal struggle. While the defendant struggled under his vibrant words, the investigating judge trembled with joy. “He’s weakening,” he thought, “I can feel it, he’s giving in, he’s mine!” But all hope of immediate success vanished as soon as he saw this surprising adversary overcome his momentary slumber, stiffen , and rise again with a new and more vigorous energy. He understood that it would take more than one assault before he could overcome such a solidly tempered character. So, in a voice made harsher by disappointed expectation, he continued: “You are definitely denying the obvious.” The incident had become bronze again. He must have bitterly regretted his weakness, for an infernal audacity sparkled in his eyes. “What obviousness?” he said, frowning. “The story invented by the police is plausible, I don’t say the opposite; but it seems to me that the truth is at least as probable.” You ‘re telling me about a coachman who picked up two small, blond women in the Rue du Chevaleret… who can prove that they were indeed the ones who were in that unfortunate cabaret?… –The police followed their tracks in the snow. –At night, across land cut by quagmires, along a street, when a fine rain was falling and the thaw was beginning!… that’s very strong. He stretched out his arm towards Lecoq and in a tone of crushing contempt, he added: –A police officer must have proud self-confidence or a fierce desire for advancement to ask for a man’s head to be cut off on such evidence! While fluttering his pen, the smiling clerk watched. “Bang!… in the dark!…” he said to himself. Terrible, indeed, was the reproach, and it stirred the young policeman to his very core. He was touched, and so just, that he forgot where he was, and stood up furious. “This circumstance would be nothing,” he said quickly, “if it were not the link in a long chain…” “Silence, officer,” interrupted the judge. And turning to the accused: “Justice,” he continued, “only uses the charges collected by the police after having checked and evaluated them. ” “No matter!” murmured the man, “I would like to see this coachman. ” “Have no fear, he will repeat his statement in your presence. ” “Well!… I shall be pleased then. I will ask him how he manages to stare at people when it is as dark as an oven.” No doubt this handsome informer is of the breed of cats, who see better at night than by day. He broke off and struck his forehead, which was apparently lit up by a sudden inspiration. “How stupid of me!” he cried. “I’m worrying about these women while you know who they are. For you know, don’t you, sir, since the coachman brought them home?” Mr. Segmuller felt he had guessed. He saw that the accused was trying to thicken the darkness precisely on the point that the investigation had so much interest in clarifying. An incomparable actor, the man had spoken this sentence with the accent of the most sincere candor. But the irony was palpable, and if he was mocking, it was because he knew he had nothing to fear on that score. “If you are consistent,” the judge continued, “you also deny the assistance of an accomplice, a… comrade. ” “What’s the point of denying it, sir, since you don’t believe anything I say? You were just now calling my boss, Mr. Simpson, an imaginary character, what shall I say then of this supposed accomplice? Ah!… the agents who invented him make him out to be a good fellow. Unhappy, no doubt, at having escaped them the first time, he has just put himself back in their clutches. These gentlemen claim that he conspired with me and then with the innkeeper. How did he do it?… After that, when they dragged him from the hut where I was, they perhaps locked him up with the old woman…” Goguet the clerk wrote and admired him. “There,” he thought, “is a fellow who has the edge, and who will not need the tongue of a lawyer before the jury.” “Finally,” continued the man, “what is there against me?… A name, Lacheneur, stammered by a dying man, footprints in the melting snow, a coachman’s declaration, a vague suspicion about a drunkard. Is that all?… that’s hardly anything.” “Enough!” interrupted M. Segmuller. “Your assurance is great now, but your confusion just now was even greater. What was the cause?” “The cause!” cried the man with a sort of rage, “the cause? Don’t you see, sir, that you are torturing me terribly, without pity, me, an innocent man, who is disputing my life with you. For so many hours you have been turning me over and over, I am as if on the swing of the guillotine, and with every word I utter, I ask myself if this is the one that will set the spring free.” My turmoil surprises you, when I have felt the cold of the knife on my neck twenty times! Look… I would not dare to wish such torture on my cruelest enemy. He must indeed have been suffering atrociously, and one could see it because it is one of those physical phenomena which escape the most robust will. Thus, his hair was soaked with sweat, and large drops which he wiped with his sleeve, rolled from time to time along his pale face. “I am not your enemy,” said Mr. Segmuller gently, who had taken the word for himself. An examining magistrate is neither friend nor enemy. of a defendant, he is only the friend of truth and the laws. I am not looking for an innocent or a guilty person, I want to find out what is. I must know who you are… and I will know. –Hey!… I kill myself saying it: I am Mai! –No. –Who would I be then?… A great personage in disguise?… Ah! I wish I did. I would have good papers, in that case, I would show them to you and you would let me go… because you know well, my good sir, I am innocent like you…. The judge had left his office, and had come to lean against the fireplace, two steps from the defendant. –Don’t insist, he said. And immediately, changing his tone and manner, he added, with the perfect urbanity of a man of the world addressing one of his peers: “Do me the honor, sir, of believing me to have enough perspicacity to have been able to unravel, beneath the difficult role that you play with such distressing perfection, a superior man, a man gifted with the rarest faculties… ” Lecoq saw clearly that this sudden change confused the incident. He tried to laugh: the laughter expired in his throat, lugubrious as a sob, and two tears sprang from his eyes. “I will not torture you further, sir,” continued the judge. ” With you, moreover, on the terrain of subtle questions, I would be beaten, I admit it in all modesty. When I return to the charge, it will be because I have in my hands enough proof to crush you…” He collected himself; Then, slowly and emphasizing each word, he added: “Only, do not expect from me the consideration that I would so willingly grant you at this moment. Justice is humane, sir, that is to say, indulgent for certain crimes. It has measured the depth of the abysses into which the honest man led astray by passion can fall. I promise you all the consideration that would not be contrary to my duties … Speak, sir… Must I send out the police officer here? Do you want me to charge my clerk with some commission?… ” He fell silent. He was waiting for the effect of this last, of this supreme effort. The incident darted at him one of those looks that strive to penetrate to the depths of the soul. His lips moved; one might have thought that he was going to speak… But no. He crossed his arms over his chest and murmured: “You are very honest, sir; Unfortunately, I am only the poor devil I told you: May, artist, to speak to the public and return the compliment…. –Let it be done according to your will, pronounced the judge sadly. The clerk will read your interrogation to you… listen. Goguet immediately began to read. The defendant listened without comment, but in the end, he refused to sign, fearing, he declared, some treachery of the grimoire. The next moment, the guards of Paris who had brought him, were dragging him away…. Chapter 22. The defendant gone, Mr. Segmuller let himself fall into his armchair, exhausted, crushed, annihilated, as happens after exorbitant efforts expended in pure loss. To the immoderate erethism of all the faculties of his mind and soul, an invincible prostration succeeded. He barely had the strength left to dab with his handkerchief dipped in cold water, his forehead burning and his eyes stinging. This dreadful session of instruction had lasted no less than seven hours. The laughing clerk, who had remained seated at his table all this time, stood up, very happy to stretch his legs and snap his fingers, tired of holding the pen. Yet he had not been bored. The dramas, which for so many years he had watched unfold, had never ceased to offer him an almost theatrical interest, titillated by the uncertainty of the outcome and the awareness of a small degree of collaboration. “What a scoundrel!” he cried, after waiting in vain for a word from the judge or the police officer; “what a scoundrel!” Ordinarily, M. Segmuller placed a certain amount of trust in Goguet’s old experience. He had even consulted him on occasion , perhaps a little like Molière consulted his maid. But this time, he could not accept his opinion. “No,” he said thoughtfully, “no, this man is not a scoundrel. When I spoke to him so gently, he was truly moved, he wept. He hesitated, I would swear, to confide everything to me… ” “Ah!… he is strong,” Lecoq agreed, “prodigiously strong!” The young policeman’s praise was sincere. Far from resenting this defendant who had deceived his calculations and who had even insulted him, he admired him for his skill and audacity. He was preparing to fight him to the bitter end, he hoped to defeat him… No matter! He felt for him that secret sympathy inspired by an adversary one feels worthy of oneself. “What organization,” Lecoq continued, “what composure, what boldness!… Ah!… there’s no denying it, his system of absolute denial is a masterpiece; it’s complete, everything fits together. And how he sustained this impossible character of a clown!… Yes, there were moments when I stood on my knees to keep from applauding. What would the vaunted actors be next to him?… The greatest actors, to give the illusion, need the optics of the stage… He, two steps away from me, surprised my reason. Little by little, the examining magistrate recovered. “Do you know, officer,” he said, “what your just reflections prove? ” “I’m listening, sir.” –Well, here is my conclusion: Either this man is truly Mai, to turn the compliment, as he says, or he belongs to the highest social spheres. No middle ground. It is only at the lowest rungs, or at the top of society, that one encounters the dark energy he has shown, this contempt for life, such presence of mind and resolution. A common bourgeois drawn to the Poivrière by some unspeakable passion, would have confessed everything long ago , and claimed the favor of the pistole… –But, sir, this defendant is not the clown Mai, said the young policeman. –No, certainly not, replied Mr. Segmuller; it is therefore up to you to see in what direction the investigations should be directed. He smiled friendly, and in his best voice added: –Was it really necessary to tell you that, Mr. Lecoq?… No, for to you belongs the honor of having penetrated the fraud. As for me, I confess, if I had not been warned, I would be the dupe of this great artist at this moment. The young policeman bowed, the vermillion of modesty on his cheeks; but happy vanity shone in his eyes, brighter than carbuncles. What a difference between this expansive and benevolent judge and the other, so taciturn and so haughty! The latter, at least, understood him, appreciated him, encouraged him, and it was with common presumptions and equal ardor that they were going to rush to the discovery of the truth. If it had only been necessary to move the little finger, that finger which kills mandarins, to suddenly heal M. d’Escorval’s broken leg, Lecoq would perhaps have hesitated. Thus thought the young agent… But he also reflected that his satisfaction was a little premature, and that success was still most problematic. The memory of the bear skin sold too soon restored his composure. “Sir,” he continued calmly, “an idea has come to me. ” “Let’s see?” “The Widow Chupin, you no doubt remember, spoke to us about her son, a certain Polyte… ” “Yes, indeed. ” “This boy, a detestable rascal, has obtained permission to remain in the Depot until his trial. Why shouldn’t we question him? He must be know all the regulars at the Poivrière, and would perhaps give us valuable information about Gustave, Lacheneur, and the incident itself. As he is not in solitary confinement, he has probably learned of his mother’s arrest, but it seems impossible to me that he suspects the perplexities of justice. “Ah!… you are a hundred times right!” cried the judge. “How did I not think of that! Tomorrow, first thing in the morning, I will question this individual, whose situation as an accused will make him more tractable than anyone else. I also want to question his wife…” He turned to his clerk and added: “Quickly, Goguet, prepare a summons in the name of the woman Hippolyte Chupin, and fill out an extraction order.” But night had fallen, and it was no longer clear enough to write; the clerk rang and asked for a light. The bailiff who had brought the lamps was leaving when there was a knock at the door. He opened the door and the director of the Depot entered, hat in hand. For twenty-four hours, this worthy official had been very preoccupied with this mysterious tenant whom he had lodged at number 3 of the secrets, and he came to the inquiries. “I have come to ask you, sir,” he said to the judge, “if I should continue to keep the accused Mai sequestered? ” “Yes, sir.” “It is because I fear his fury, and on the other hand, it is repugnant to me to put him back in the straitjacket. ” “Leave him free in his cell,” said Mr. Segmuller, “recommend that he be treated gently, and be content to exercise constant surveillance over him. Under the terms of Article 613, although the policing of prisons is entrusted to the administrative authority, the judge can carry out whatever he deems useful for the investigation. ” The director therefore bowed, then added: “You have doubtless, sir, succeeded in ascertaining the identity of the accused?” “No, unfortunately.” The director shook his head sagaciously. “In that case,” he said, “my conjectures were correct. It seems to me abundantly clear that this man is a criminal of the worst kind, a repeat offender, most certainly, who has the most powerful interest in concealing his individuality. You will see, sir, that we are dealing with some life convict, returned from Cayenne without leave.
” “Perhaps you are mistaken…” “Hmm!… I would be surprised. I must confess that my opinion is that of Mr. Gévrol, the most experienced and skillful of the security inspectors. After that, it sometimes happens that young and overzealous agents get carried away and run after the chimeras of their imagination. ” Lecoq, flushed with anger, was no doubt about to retort sharply when Mr. Segmuller, with a gesture, imposed silence on him. It was the judge who replied, smiling: “My goodness!… dear sir, the more I study this case, the more I support the system of the overzealous agent. After that, I am not infallible, and I count on your services… ” “Oh!… I have my means of verification,” interrupted the stubborn director, “and I hope that within twenty-four hours our man will have been positively recognized, either by the agents of the security service , or by the prisoners to whom he is shown.” He withdrew on this promise, and Lecoq rose up furiously. “You see, this Gevrol, Mr. Judge,” he cried, “he is already speaking ill of me, he is jealous…. ” “Well!… what does it matter to you! If you succeed, you are avenged…. If you fail, I am here.” And immediately, as time drew on, Mr. Segmuller handed the young policeman the evidence he had collected which was to aid the investigations: first the earring, the origin of which it was essential to find, then the letter signed Lacheneur, found in the pocket of Gustave, the false soldier. He gave him various orders again, and after recommending to him punctuality for the next day, he dismissed him with these words: –Go… and good luck. Chapter 23. Long, narrow, low-ceilinged, pierced with a quantity of small numbered doors, like the corridor of a hotel, furnished from one end to the other with a crude oak bench blackened by use, such is the gallery of the examining magistrates. In the daytime, populated by its usual guests, defendants, witnesses and guards of Paris, it is heartbreakingly sad. It is sinister, when it is deserted, at night, barely lit by the smoky lamp of the weekday bailiff awaiting some judge with an intellectual disability. However unimpressionable Lecoq was, his heart sank as he followed this interminable corridor, and he hurried to the stairs to escape the echo of his footsteps, lugubrious in this silence. On the lower floor, a window had remained open; he leaned out to check the weather outside. The temperature had become remarkably milder. There was no more snow; the paving stones were almost dry. A light mist, illuminated by the red glow of the gas, barely swayed like a purple veil over Paris. Below, the street was at the height of its animation: the cars moved faster, the sidewalks were becoming too narrow for the noisy crowd who, after the day, rushed to their pleasures. This spectacle drew a sigh from the young policeman. “And it is in this immense city,” he murmured, “in the midst of all these people, that I claim to find traces of a stranger!… Is it possible?”… But this weakness did not last. “Yes, it is possible,” a voice within him cried; ” besides, it must be done, it is the future!” What one wants, one can do. Ten seconds later, he was in the street, more than ever inflamed with courage and hope. Man, unfortunately, has only very limited organs to serve limitless desires. The young policeman had not taken twenty steps when he recognized that his physical strength was betraying his will: his legs were giving way, his head was spinning. Nature was reasserting itself : for two days and two nights, he had not rested a minute, and he had not eaten anything all day. “Am I going to be unwell?” he thought, reduced to sitting on a bench. And he was desolate, as he recapitulated everything he had to do that evening. Shouldn’t he, to speak only of the most urgent, have inquired about the results of Father Absinthe’s hunt, found out if one of the victims had been recognized at the Morgue, checked the defendant’s assertions in the hotels surrounding the Gare du Nord, and finally obtained the address of Polyte Chupin’s wife in order to serve her with the summons?… Under the whip of pressing necessity, he succeeded in overcoming his weakness, and he stood up, murmuring: “I’ll still go to Rue de Jérusalem and to the Morgue, then I ‘ll see. ” But at the Prefecture he didn’t find Father Absinthe, and no one could give him any news of him. The man hadn’t shown himself. Nor could anyone tell him, even vaguely, the residence of Widow Chupin’s daughter-in-law. On the other hand, he met a good many of his colleagues, who mocked him outrageously. “Ah! You’re a rabbit!… said everyone he approached, it seems you’ve just made a famous discovery!… they’re talking about you for the cross!… Gévrol’s influence was betraying itself. The touchy inspector, in fact, was telling everyone that this poor Lecoq, a person mentally ill with ambition, persisted in taking a common repeat offender for a person of all types of body, a disguised character . Bast!… these gibes hardly affected the young policeman. He who laughs last laughs best, he muttered. If his expression was worried while he went up the Quai des Orfèvres, It was that he could not explain the prolonged absence of old Absinthe. He was still wondering if Gevrol, in the delirium of his jealousy, would not be capable of trying to confuse all the threads of the affair under his breath. At the morgue, he had no better experience. After he had rung three or four times, the guard who came to open the door told him that the bodies were still unknown and that the old agent sent that morning had not been seen again . “Decidedly,” thought the young policeman, “I’m off to a bad start… Let’s go to dinner, that will break the luck, and I’ve earned the bottle of good wine I want to treat myself to. ” It was a happy inspiration. What a lot of us!… A soup and two glasses of Bordeaux wine poured a new boldness and energy into his blood. If he still felt his weariness, it was tolerable, when he left the restaurant, a cigar in his mouth.
It was at that moment that he missed Father Papillon’s carriage and good horse !… A cab was passing, by chance, he took it, and eight o’clock was striking when he dismounted on the square in front of the Northern Railway station. He stopped first, then the investigations began. Of course, he did not present himself at the houses under his title of security agent. That would have been a way of finding out nothing. Just by combing his hair back and raising his false collar, he had given himself a certain exotic air, and it was with a rather pronounced English accent that he asked for news of a foreign worker. But in vain he used all his skill to question, everywhere he was answered the same thing: “We don’t know, we haven’t seen!” The opposite would have astonished Lecoq, convinced that the incident had only imagined this story of a trunk left in a hotel, to give his story a clearer stamp of plausibility. If he persisted, if he noted in his notebook the hotels visited, it was because he wanted to be sure of the defendant’s disappointment when he was brought into the field to be convicted of lying. Rue de Saint-Quentin, he started at the Hôtel de Mariembourg. The house was modest in appearance, but clean and well-kept. The young policeman pushed open the openwork gate equipped with a bell that blocked access to the vestibule, and entered the hotel office, a pretty room lit by a gas lamp with a frosted glass globe . There was a woman in this office. She was hoisted up on a chair, her face at the level of a cage covered with a large piece of black luster, and she was repeating three or four German words relentlessly. She was applying herself so hard to this exercise that Lecoq was obliged to cough and make a noise to attract her attention. Finally, she turned around. “Oh!… good evening, madam,” said the young policeman. “You are , I see, teaching your parrot to speak. ” “It’s not a parrot I have here, sir,” replied the woman from the top of her chair, “it’s a starling. I wish it could say in German: ‘Have you had your lunch?’ ” “Well!… so starlings talk? ” “Like people, yes, sir,” said the woman, jumping down. And indeed, the bird, as if it had understood that it was a question of him, began to cry very distinctly: “Camille!… Where is Camille?… But Lecoq was much too tormented to pay attention to this bird and the name it pronounced. “Madame,” he began, “I would like to speak to the landlady of the hotel…. ” “It’s me, sir. ” “Oh!… very well; then here it is: I made an appointment in Paris with a workman from Leipzig, I am surprised that he has not arrived yet, and I have come to know if he has not stayed at your place. His name is Mai. ” “Mai,” repeated the landlady, who seemed to be searching, “Mai!…” “He should have arrived Sunday evening… He’s a poor devil!” The woman’s face brightened. “Wait a minute!” she said. “Is your worker by any chance a man of a certain age, of medium height, very dark, with a full beard, and very bright eyes? ” Lecoq started. That was the description of the incident. “There,” he stammered, “is the portrait of my man! ” “Well!… sir, he came down to my house on the afternoon of Shrove Sunday. He asked for a very cheap cabinet, and I showed him one on the fifth floor. The waiter being away at the moment, he insisted on carrying his trunk himself. I offered to take something, but he refused on the pretext that he was in a hurry, and he left after giving me a ten-franc deposit. ” “And where is he?” the young policeman asked quickly. “My God!… sir,” replied the woman, “you remind me of it!… This man has not reappeared, and I am not without concern. Paris is so dangerous for foreigners! It is true that he speaks French like you and me. No matter!… I gave the order last night to go and warn the police commissioner. ” “Yesterday!… the commissioner!… ” “Yes… Only I don’t know if the commissioner has been carried out… I had forgotten! Allow me to ring the waiter to ask him… ” A bucket of iced water, falling from ten meters on the young policeman’s head, would have stunned him less than the statement of the owner of the Hôtel de Mariembourg. Had the incident told the truth?… Was it possible!… Gévrol and the director of the Depot would be right then!… In that case, Mr. Segmuller and he, Lecoq, would be nothing but madmen, chasers of chimeras! The ingenious weave of learned deductions was broken!… The beautiful scaffolding of prevention was collapsing into the ridiculousness of flat reality!… All this flashed through the young agent’s brain. But he didn’t have time to reflect. The boy called appeared, a good person of all types, a candid and chubby boy. “Fritz,” his landlady asked him, “did you go to the commissioner’s?” “Yes, madam. ” “What did he tell you? ” “I didn’t find him, but I spoke to his secretary, Mr. Casimir, who told me not to worry you, that he would come. ” “He didn’t come.” The boy raised both arms with that shrug of the shoulders which is the most eloquent translation of this answer: “What do you want me to do about it!” “You see, sir…” said the landlady, seeming to believe that the importunate questioner was going to withdraw. Such was not Lecoq’s intention, and he did not move, although he needed all his composure to maintain his English accent despite his emotion. “It’s very unpleasant,” he said, “oh!… very much so! I am less advanced than before and more undecided, since I believe that this man is the one I am looking for, and yet I am not at all certain. ” “Lady!… Sir, what do you want me to tell you!” Lecoq collected himself, frowning and pursing his lips, as if he had been seeking some inspiration to free him from his uncertainty. The truth is that he was trying to find a clever way to get this woman to offer him the police book in which hoteliers are required to record the first names, surnames, occupation, and address of all the people who come to stay with them. He trembled at the thought of arousing her suspicions. “So, madam,” he insisted, “you don’t remember at all the name this man gave you?… Come now, is it Mai?… Make an effort, remember… Mai, Mai!…. “Ah!… I have so many things in my head…. ” “We could well,” murmured the young policeman, who seemed to be about to leave, “we should write down the names of the travelers, as in England. “But they are entered, sir,” retorted the woman, rebelling, “and day by day, in a special register, printed, with columns for each entry… And by the way, I’m thinking, I can, to oblige you, show you my book; it’s there, in my desk drawer… Come on, well! I can’t find my key anymore… While this landlady, obviously as brainless as her talking birds, was turning everything upside down in her hotel office, Lecoq was watching her from below. She was a woman of about forty, very blonde, preserved like blondes that preserve themselves, that is to say, fresh, white, plump, with health in full corset, appetizing like those beautiful ripe fruits whose delicious water runs down the lips when one dies in them. Her gaze was, moreover, straight and frank, her voice was well -toned, her manner was simple and perfectly natural. “Ah! she cried triumphantly, I have that damned key. She immediately opened her desk, took out the police book , placed it on the shelf, and began to leaf through it. She went about it rather clumsily, so that the young policeman with his lynx eyes could see that the register was well kept. Finally, she came to the important page. “Sunday, February 20,” she said, “look, sir, here, on the seventh line: MAY, – no first name, – fairground artist, – coming from Leipzig, – no papers …. ” While Lecoq was examining this entry with an absolutely bewildered air, the woman had another memory. “I can explain,” she cried, “how I had neither the name Mai nor that strange profession: fairground artist in my memory.” It wasn’t me who wrote that… –Who is it?… –The individual himself, sir, while I was looking for ten francs to give him back on a louis he had just given me. You must see that the writing is no longer at all that of the other inscriptions above and below…. Yes, Lecoq saw that, and it was an irrefutable argument, precise and terrible as a blow from a stick. –Are you at least quite sure, he insisted sharply, that this note is in the hand of the man?… Would you swear to it?… He was so greatly troubled that he forgot his exotic pronunciation. The woman noticed it, for she stepped back, casting a suspicious look at this false foreigner. Then, distrust seemed to be replaced by anger at having been taken for a dupe. –I know what I’m saying! she declared a little more than curtly. And then, that’s enough, isn’t it? Recognizing that he had betrayed himself, and ashamed of his lack of composure, Lecoq abandoned his English accent. “Pardon,” he said, “one more question. Do you still have that individual ‘s trunk ? ” “Of course. ” “Ah!… you would be doing me an immense service by showing it to me. ” “Show it to you!” cried the blonde hostess, indignant. “Oh, what do you take me for?… What do you want, who are you?…” “In half an hour you’ll know,” replied the young policeman, who understood the uselessness of any kind of insistence. He left abruptly, ran to the Place de Roubaix, jumped into a carriage, and gave the address of the district commissioner, promising a hundred sous, in addition to the fare, to the coachman if he drove at a good pace. At this price, people of all types of rogues flew under the whip. Lecoq was still lucky, the commissioner was at home. Lecoq declined his position, and was immediately brought before the district magistrate. “Ah!… sir,” he cried, “come to my aid.” And all in one breath, he began to tell just enough of the story to get him out of trouble. As soon as he had finished: “It’s still true!” exclaimed the commissioner, “someone has come to get me.” about this missing man, Casimir told me this morning… “They came… to warn… you…” stammered Lecoq. “Yesterday… yes… but I’ve been so busy!… Anyway, my boy, what can I do to help you?” “Come with me, sir, demand that the trunk be presented to us, call a locksmith to open it. Here are some powers, a search warrant that the examining magistrate gave me in any case. Let’s not waste a minute, I have a car at your door. ” “Let’s go!” said the commissioner simply. When they were in the cab which set off at a gallop: “Now, sir,” asked the young policeman, “allow me to ask you if you know the woman who runs the Mariembourg hotel?” “Very well! When I was appointed to this district, six years ago, I was not married, and I took my meals for quite a long time at this lady’s table d’hôte… Casimir, my secretary, still eats there.” “And what sort of woman is she?” ” But, by Jove!… my young friend, Mrs. Milner,—that is her name,—is a very respectable widow, loved and esteemed in the neighborhood, whose business is prospering, and who remains a widow solely because it pleases her, for she is still very agreeable and exceedingly well-off… ” “Then you would not believe her capable, for a good sum, of… how shall I put it?… of serving some very rich defendant…” “Are you becoming a mentally ill person!” interrupted the commissioner. “Mrs. Milner, consenting to false testimony for money!… Didn’t I just tell you that she is honest, and that she has a fortune?… Besides, she had warned me yesterday, so…” Lecoq fell silent, they were arriving. Seeing the obstinate questioner appear behind her commissioner, Mrs. Milner seemed to understand everything. “Jesus!” she cried, “an agent!” I should have suspected. There’s a crime. My hotel has lost its reputation. It took time to reassure and console her; all the time was spent looking for a locksmith in the area. Finally, they went up to the missing man’s room, and Lecoq rushed to the trunk. Ah!… there was no denying it, it had come from Leipzig, the little squares of paper stuck there by the various railway administrations proved it. They opened it: everything the man had announced was there. Lecoq was petrified. He watched, with a stupid air, as the commissioner put everything in a cupboard, taking the key, and then he left. He went out, holding onto the walls, his head lost, and they heard him stumbling like a drunkard up the stairs. Chapter 24. Shrove Tuesday that year was very gay, which means that the pawnshop and the public balls did good business. When, around midnight, Lecoq left the Hôtel de Mariembourg, the streets were as noisy and crowded as at midday, and the cafes were teeming with customers. But the young policeman was not in a good mood. He mingled with the crowd without seeing it and pushed through the groups without hearing the imprecations his abruptness aroused. Where he was going? He didn’t know. He walked straight ahead, aimlessly , at random, more distraught than a gambler whose last lost louis has swept away his last hope. “We must surrender,” he murmured, “the evidence is clear, my presumptions were only chimeras, my deductions, games of chance! All that remains is for me to extricate myself from this predicament with the least possible damage and ridicule . ” He had just reached the boulevard when an idea burst from his brain, so dazzling that he could not suppress a cry. “I’m just a fool!” And he beat his forehead until it broke. “Is it possible,” he continued, “that I, so strong in theory, should become so pitifully weak as soon as I put it into practice! Ah! I’m still just a child, a conscript, surprised by the slightest thing.” and throws off the right path. I become confused, my head spins and I lose even the faculty of reasoning. Now, let us reflect coldly: How did I first judge this defendant, whose system holds us in check? I said to myself: this one is a man of superior genius, of consummate experience and insight, audacious, of unfailing composure and who will attempt the impossible to ensure the success of his comedy. Yes, that is what I was saying, and at the first circumstance that I do not explain, there, immediately, I throw in the towel. It is obvious, however, that a man of prodigious skill would not resort to vulgar maneuvers. Should I hope that he would sew his tricks with white thread? Come on!… the more appearances are against my presumptions and in favor of the prisoner’s version, the more certain it is that I am right!… or logic is no longer logic. The young policeman burst out laughing and added: “Only, to expose this theory at the Prefecture in front of Mr. Gevrol would perhaps be premature, and would earn me a certificate for Charenton. ” He stopped; he was in front of his house. He rang, and the door was opened. He had nimbly climbed his four floors and had reached his landing when a voice in the darkness called: “Is it you, Mr. Lecoq?” “Myself,” replied the young officer, a little surprised, “but you?… ” “I am Father Absinthe. ” “My word!… you are welcome, I didn’t recognize your voice… take the trouble to come into my house.” They entered and Lecoq lit a candle. Then the young policeman could see his old colleague, and what a state he was in, good God!… He was dirtier and more muddy than a poodle lost in three days of rain, his frock coat bore the marks of twenty walls wiped off, his hat was no longer in any shape. His eyes were cloudy and his mustache hung pitifully. He chewed empty, as if his mouth were full of sand. At times, he tried to spit; he made the gesture, the effort… but nothing came out. “You bring me bad news?” asked Lecoq, after a brief examination. “Bad.” “The people you were following have slipped through your fingers.” The old man nodded affirmatively up and down. “It’s a misfortune,” said the young policeman, smelling some mishap, “it’s a very great misfortune! However, you mustn’t be unduly distressed.” Come now, Papa, raise your head, damn it! Between the two of us, tomorrow we’ll make amends. This friendly encouragement redoubled the old man’s very visible embarrassment . He blushed, this old policeman, like a boarding school girl, and shaking his fist at the ceiling, he cried: “Ah!… you scoundrel, I told you so! ” “Huh!” said Lecoq, “who do you blame?” Father Absinthe didn’t reply; he placed himself squarely in front of the mirror and began to heap the most cruel insults on his reflection. “Old good-for-nothing!” he said, “nasty soldier! Aren’t you ashamed? You had an order, didn’t you? What did you do with it? You drank it, you filthy old drunkard. Go on, it won’t happen like that, and even if Monsieur Lecoq were to forgive you, you’ll be deprived of gout for eight days.” You’ll be angry, it will be well done. That’s exactly what the young policeman had sensed. “Come on,” he said to the old man, “you’ll be lecturing yourself later. Tell me your story quickly. ” “Ah!… I’m not proud of it, I beg you to believe it, but no matter. So you were probably given a letter in which I told you that I was going to tail the young people who had recognized Gustave?” “Yes, yes, come along!” “So, once in the café, where I had followed them, there were my boys who started drinking vermouth by the glassful, no doubt.” in order to chase away the emotion. After drinking, they become hungry, and they ask for lunch. I, in my corner, do the same as them. The meal, the coffee, the after-dinner drink, the beer, all that takes time. At two o’clock, however, they decide to pay and leave. Well!… I thought they were going home. Not at all. They reach the rue Dauphine, and I see them open the door of a tavern. I slip in five minutes after them; they were already playing billiards. He was coughing; the difficult thing to say was coming. “I sit down at a small table,” he continued, “and I ask for a newspaper. I was reading it with only one eye, when suddenly a good bourgeois comes in and sits down near me. As soon as I sit down, he asks me for the newspaper when I’ve finished, I pass it to him, and there we are, talking about the weather. Anyway, one thing led to another, and this bourgeois finally offered me a game of bezigue for fifteen cents. I refused the bezigue, but I accepted a cent of piquet. The young people, you hear me, always clashed the ivory. They brought us a carpet and there we were, playing small glasses of fine. I won. The bourgeois asked me for his rematch and we played two bocs. I won. He persisted, we started playing small glasses… And I always won, and always drank, and the more I drank…. –Come on, come on!… and then?… –Eh!… here’s the problem! After that I don’t remember anything, neither the bourgeois nor the young people. I seem to remember, however, that I fell asleep in the café, and that the waiter came to wake me and ask me to leave… So, I must have wandered along the quays, until, my thoughts having returned to me, I decided to come and wait for you on your stairs. To Father Absinthe’s great surprise, Lecoq seemed even more preoccupied than displeased. “What do you think of this bourgeois, Papa?” he asked. “I think he was following me while I was tailing the others; and that he only came into the café to get me drunk. ” “Give me his description?” “He’s a tall, rather personable man of all types, with a broad red face and a very snub nose, a good-natured air… ” “It’s him!” cried Lecoq. “Him!… Who?” “The accomplice, the man whose fingerprints we took, the fake drunkard, a devil incarnate who will put us all in it, if we don’t keep our eyes open… Don’t forget it, Papa, and if you ever meet him!… But Father Absinthe’s confession wasn’t finished, and like the devout, he had kept the most sinful person of all types of bodies for the end. “That’s not all,” he continued, “and I don’t want to hide anything from you. It seems to me that this traitor spoke to me about the incident at the Poivrière, and that I told him everything we discovered and everything you intend to do…” Lecoq made such a terrible gesture that the old man recoiled in terror. “Unhappy man!…” he cried, “delivering our plan to the enemy!” But he quickly regained his composure. At first the evil was incurable, then it still had a good side: it removed all the doubts that the affair of the Hôtel de Mariembourg could have left. “But this is not the time to reflect,” continued the young policeman, ” I am crushed with fatigue; take a mattress in bed, for you, old man, and let us go to sleep… ” Chapter 25. Lecoq was a provident fellow. He had taken care, before going to bed, to set up an alarm clock, which he possessed, and to place the hands at six o’clock. “That way,” he said to Father Absinthe, blowing out the candle, “we will not miss the boat.” But he counted without his own extreme weariness; without the fumes of alcohol which still filled the brain of his old colleague. When six o’clock struck at Saint-Eustache, the alarm clock worked faithfully, but the strident noise of the ingenious mechanism was not enough not to interrupt the heavy sleep of the two policemen. They would probably have slept for a long time, if around seven thirty two vigorous blows had not shaken the door of the room. With a leap Lecoq was on his feet, stupefied to see the day break, furious at the futility of his precautions. “Come in!” he shouted to the early visitor. The young policeman had no enemies yet; at that time, he could without imprudence sleep with the key in the lock. The door immediately opened ajar, and the shrewd face of Father Papillon appeared. “Hey!… it’s my good coachman!” cried Lecoq. “So there’s something new? ” “Excuse me, bourgeois, on the contrary, it’s always the same cause that brings me, you know, the thirty francs from the hussies… I won’t sleep peacefully until I have driven you, gratis for such a sum.” You used my car yesterday for a hundred sous, that’s twenty-five francs I owe you back. –But that’s madness, my friend! –Possibly!… it’s mine. I swore to myself, if you don’t take me , to park eleven hours by the clock in front of your door. At two francs twenty-five centimes an hour, we’ll be even. Make up your mind. His eye was pleading; it was clear that a refusal would have seriously offended him. –Very well, said Lecoq, I’ll take you for the morning; only, I must warn you that we’re going to start with a real journey. –Cocotte has good legs. –My colleague and I have business in your neighborhood. We absolutely must find Widow Chupin’s daughter-in-law, and I have every reason to hope that we’ll find her address at the district commissioner’s. –Ah! We’ll go wherever you want; I’m at your orders. They left a few moments later. Papillon, proud in his seat, cracked his whip, and the carriage sped off as if there were a hundred sous’ worth of tips. Only Father Absinthe was sad. Lecoq had forgiven him and even sworn him to secrecy, but he couldn’t forgive himself! He couldn’t console himself for having been, he, an old policeman, played like a naive provincial. If only he hadn’t revealed the secret of the investigation! But, he understood only too well, he had, by that alone, doubled the difficulties of the task. At least, the long journey was not in vain. The secretary of the police commissioner of the thirteenth arrondissement informed Lecoq that the woman Polyte Chupin lived with her child nearby, in the alley of Butte-aux-Cailles. He couldn’t give the exact number, but he gave details. Mother Chupin’s daughter-in-law was from Auvergne, and she was cruelly punished for having preferred a Parisian to a compatriot. Arriving in Paris at the age of twelve, she entered a large factory in Montrouge as a servant and remained there ever since. After ten years of deprivation and hard work, she had amassed, penny by penny, three thousand francs, when her evil genius threw Polyte Chupin into her path. She fell in love with this pale and cynical scoundrel, and he married her for her savings. As long as the money lasted, that is to say, for three or four months, the household went on bumpily. But with the last écu, Polyte flew away and resumed with delight his life of idleness, pilfering, and debauchery. From then on, he only returned to his wife’s house to rob her, when he suspected she had some small savings. And periodically she allowed herself to be stripped of everything. He would have liked to push her lower, lured by the hope of ignoble profits; she resisted. From this very resistance had come old Chupin’s intolerance towards her daughter-in-law, an intolerance which expressed itself in so much ill- treatment that the poor woman had to flee one evening with only the rags that covered her. Perhaps the mother and son were counting on hunger to do what had not been able to make their threats and their advice. Their shameful calculations must have been mistaken. The secretary added that these facts were public knowledge, and that everyone did justice to the valiant Auvergnate. “Even,” he said, “a nickname that had been given to her: Toinon-la-Vertu, was a crude but sincere homage. ” Armed with this information, Lecoq got back into the carriage. The alley of Butte-aux-Cailles, where Papillon quickly took him, bears little resemblance to the Boulevard Malesherbes. Do millionaires live there ? It is impossible to guess. What is certain is that all the inhabitants know each other as well as in a village. The first person the young policeman asked Madame Polyte Chupin of, got him out of his embarrassment. “Toinon-la-Vertu lives in that house, on the right,” he was told; “at the very top of the stairs, the door opposite.” The directions were so precise that at once Lecoq and Father Absinthe arrived at the lodging they were looking for. It was a sad and cold tiled attic, quite spacious, lit by a skylight window. A dislocated walnut bed, a rickety table, two chairs, and miserable household utensils constituted the furniture. But the cleanliness, despite the poverty, sparkled, and one could have eaten off the floor, according to Father Absinthe’s energetic expression. When the two policemen presented themselves, they found a woman sewing coarse canvas bags, sitting in the middle of the room, under the window, so that the daylight would fall squarely on her work. At the sight of two strangers, she half rose, surprised, even a little frightened; and when they had explained to her that they had to speak to her at some length, she left her chair to offer it. But the old policeman forced her to remain seated, and he remained standing while Lecoq settled himself on the other chair. At a glance, the young policeman had inventoried the dwelling and assessed the woman. She was small, short, fat, terribly common. A thicket of coarse black hair planted very low on her forehead and of no one of any type of body, eyes set high in her head, gave to her physiognomy something of the heartbreaking resignation of the mistreated animal. Perhaps she had once had what is commonly called the devil’s beauty, now she seemed almost as old as her mother-in-law. Sorrow and privation, excessive work, nights spent under the lamp, devoured tears and blows received had dulled her complexion, reddened her eyes and dug deep wrinkles at her temples. But from her whole person exhaled a perfume of native honesty which the environment in which she had lived could not corrupt. Her child was nothing like her. He was pale and puny, with eyes that shone with a phosphorescent glow and hair the dirty yellow called Paris blond. One detail moved the two officers. The mother wore only a shabby calico dress, but the little one was warmly dressed in cloth of all body types. “Madame,” Lecoq began gently, “you have no doubt heard of the great crime committed in your mother-in-law’s establishment. ” “Alas!… yes, sir.” And she added quickly: “But my man cannot be involved in it, since he is in prison. ” Did not this objection, which ran to meet suspicion, betray horrible apprehensions? “Yes, I know,” said the young policeman, “Polyte was arrested about two weeks ago…. ” “Oh!… very unjustly, sir, I swear to you. He was, as always, dragged away by his friends, bad characters. He is so weak; when he has a glass of wine in his head, then we do whatever we want with it. He wouldn’t hurt a child on his own, just look at him…. While talking, she fixed fiery glances on a bad photograph hanging on the wall, depicting a hideous rascal with a squinty eye, a grimacing mouth barely shaded by a slight mustache, and locks of hair stuck tightly to his temples. There was Polyte. And there was no mistaking it, this unfortunate woman still loved him; he was her husband, moreover. A minute of silence followed this mute scene in which passion burst forth, and it was during this silence that the attic door opened gently. A man put his head out and immediately withdrew it with a dull exclamation. Then the door closed, the key creaked in the lock, and rapid footsteps were heard on the stairs. Sitting in the attic, his back to the door, Lecoq had not been able to see the face of the strange visitor. And, however quickly he had turned at the noise, he had guessed the movement much sooner than surprised it. Yet he had not the shadow of a doubt. “It’s him,” he cried, “the accomplice! Thanks to his position, Father Absinthe had seen. ” “Yes,” he said, “yes, I recognized the man who got me drunk yesterday.” With one leap, the two agents had thrown themselves on the door, and they were exhausting themselves in futile efforts to open it. It resisted, it held firm, for it was of solid oak, having been bought at the demolitions by the owner, and fitted there, by chance, with its old and solid lock. “But help us,” Father Absinthe said to Polyte’s wife, petrified with surprise, “give us a bar, a piece of iron, a nail, anything!” The young policeman, for his part, was bleeding his hands trying to drive the bolt back in or tear off the guard. He was stamping his feet with rage… Finally, the door was forced open, and the two officers, animated by equal ardor , rushed in pursuit of their mysterious adversary. Arriving in the alley, they made inquiries. They could give a description of the man; that was something. Two people had seen him enter the house in Toinon-la-Vertu, a third had noticed him when he left it precipitately. Children playing on the roadway assured them that this individual had fled as fast as he could in the direction of the Rue du Moulin-des-Prés. It was in this street, near the point where the Butte-aux-Cailles alley begins, that Lecoq had stopped his carriage. “Let’s run there!” suggested Father Absinthe. ” Perhaps the coachman can give us some information.” But the other shook his head in a discouraged manner and did not move. “What’s the use?” he said. “That man’s presence of mind in turning the key saved him. He’s now ten minutes ahead of us; he’s far away; we won’t catch him. ” The old policeman was pale with anger. He now considered this cunning accomplice who had so cruelly mystified him as his personal enemy; he would have given a month’s pay to catch him. “Ah!” It’s not nerve that this brigand lacks, he said, nor luck!… To think that he’s mocking us, like a mouse playing with a cat’s claws, and that here are three times he’s escaped us… Three times!… The young policeman was at least as irritated as his colleague, and his vanity was much more wounded. But he felt the need for composure. “Yes,” he replied thoughtfully, “the mastiff is bold and intelligent, and he doesn’t sit still. If we work, he moves firmly. That demon is everywhere. Whichever way I push the attack, I find him on the defensive. It was he, the old man, who made you lose Gustave’s trail, it was he who organized this fine comedy at the Hôtel de Mariembourg… ” “And now,” the old man objected, with a capable air, “let the General come and sing to us that it’s ghosts you’re pretending to be.” lead to the station!… However delicate the flattery, it could not draw Lecoq from his reflections. –Until now, he continued after a moment, this clever director has been ahead of me, everywhere; hence my failures. Here, at least, we arrive before him. Now, if he came here, it is because he smells danger… So we can hope. Let us go back up to the wife of that rascal Polyte. Alas! poor Toinon-la-Vertu understood nothing of this adventure. She had remained on her landing, holding her child by the hand, leaning over the banister of the staircase, palpitating, her eye and ear on the alert. As soon as she saw the two officers coming up as slowly as they had come down quickly, she stepped forward: “In heaven’s name,” she asked, “what’s going on, what does this mean?” But Lecoq was not the man to talk his business in a corridor lined with ears, and it was only when he had pushed the young woman back into her attic, the door closed, that he answered her. “We have just given chase to an accomplice in the incidents at the Poivrière. He arrived hoping to find you alone, our presence frightened him. ” “A murderer!” stammered Toinon, clasping her hands. “What could he want with me? ” “Who knows? Presumably he is one of your husband’s friends. ” “Oh!… sir… ” “What!… Didn’t you just tell us that Polyte has the most detestable acquaintances! Don’t worry, that doesn’t compromise him in any way.” Besides, you have a simple way to remove suspicion from him. “A way! What is it? Oh! Tell me quickly…. ” “It is to answer me frankly, and to put myself in a position, you who are an honest woman, to arrest the culprit. Among all your husband’s friends , do you not know any capable of having done the deed?… Name them for me.” The unfortunate woman’s hesitation was visible. Often, no doubt, she had attended ignoble secret meetings, and she must have been threatened with terrible vengeance if she spoke. “You have nothing to fear,” insisted the young policeman, “and never, I promise you, will anyone know that you said a word to me. Besides, whatever you say, you may not tell me anything. We have already been told many things about your life, not to mention the brutality to which you were subjected by Polyte and his mother. ” “My husband, sir, has never been rude to me,” said the young woman proudly…. That, moreover, is no one’s business but me. “And your mother-in-law? ” “She may be a little lively; deep down, she has a good heart. ” “Then why on earth did you run away from Widow Chupin’s tavern, since you were so happy there?” Toinon-la-Vertu had turned crimson to the roots of her hair. “I ran away,” she replied, “for other reasons. A lot of drunken men used to come there, and sometimes, when I was alone, some wanted to push the joke a little too far… You will tell me that I have a strong wrist, and it is true; so I might have been patient… But when I was away there were some who were stupid enough to make the little one drink brandy, to the point that once when I came home I found him as if dead, already stiff and cold, and I had to run for the doctor. She stopped short, her pupil dilated. She had gone from red to livid, and it was in a strangled voice that she cried to her son: “Toto!… Unhappy man!…” Lecoq looked around him and shuddered; he had understood. This child, who was not yet five years old, had crept up on all fours near him and was searching the pockets of his overcoat, he was stealing from him, he was plundering him… and skillfully. “Well!… yes,” cried the unfortunate girl, bursting into tears, “yes, there was that too!” As soon as I lost sight of the little one, people would lure him outside. They would take him to places where there is world, and they taught him to search in pockets and bring them what he found. If anything was noticed, they became very angry with the child and beat him… If no one saw anything, they gave him a penny for barley sugar and kept what he had taken. She hid her face in her hands, and, in an unintelligible voice, added: “And I don’t want my little one to be a thief.” What she didn’t say, the poor creature, was that the one who was taking the child away and training him to steal was the father, her husband, Polyte Chupin. But the two agents understood this well, and so abominable was the man’s crime, and so heart-rending the woman’s grief, that they felt it stirred to the very depths of their being. From that moment on, Lecoq thought only of shortening a terribly painful scene. Besides, the emotion of this poor mother guaranteed his sincerity. “Here,” he said to her with affected brusqueness, ” just two questions, and I’ll let you off the hook. Among the inhabitants of your tavern, wasn’t there one named Gustave?… ” “No, sir, of course. ” “Very well!… But Lacheneur, you must know Lacheneur? ” “That one, yes.” The young policeman could not suppress an exclamation of joy. At last , he thought, he had reached the end of the thread that would lead him to the light, to the truth. “What kind of man is he?” he asked quickly. “Oh! he doesn’t look like the people who drink at my mother-in-law’s. I only saw him once, but his face has stayed in my mind. It was a Sunday.” He was in a car stopped near the vacant lots and was talking to Polyte. When he left, my husband said to me: You see this old man, he will make our fortune. I found him to be a very respectable gentleman…. “That’s enough,” Lecoq interrupted; “now it’s a matter, my dear, of coming to testify before the judge. I have a car downstairs. Take your child if you like, but hurry, come quickly, come…. ” Chapter 26. Mr. Segmuller was one of those magistrates who cherish their profession with an undivided love, who give themselves to it body and soul and put into exercising it all their energy, intelligence, and sagacity. As an examining magistrate, he brought to the search for truth the tenacious passion of a doctor battling an unknown illness, the enthusiasm of an artist exhausting himself in the pursuit of beauty. This is to say how imperiously this dark affair of the Chupin cabaret, which had been entrusted to him, had seized his mind . He discovered in it everything that should arouse interest: the magnitude of the crime, the obscurity of the circumstances, the impenetrable mystery surrounding the victims and the incident, the strange attitude of an enigmatic defendant. The romantic element was not lacking, represented by these two women whose traces had been lost, and by this elusive accomplice. Finally, the anxiety of the result was an additional attraction. Self-esteem never loses its rights; and M. Segmuller thought that success would be all the more honorable the greater the difficulties. And he hoped to win, especially having an assistant like Lecoq, this beginner in whom he had recognized extraordinary abilities and the genius of his profession. So, after a crushing day, the idea did not occur to him to escape the tyranny of his preoccupations or to postpone his worries until tomorrow. He hurried to dinner, swallowing twice as much, and, having drunk his coffee, he returned to his work with renewed ardor. He had taken with him the interrogation of the so-called fairground artist, and he studied it like an engineer who prowls around the place he is besieging, to recognize the weak points where the efforts of the attack must converge. He analyzed all the answers, he weighed their expressions one by one. He was looking for the joint where he could slip in some victorious question that, like a mine, would dislocate the defense system. A good part of his night was spent on this work, which did not prevent him from getting up earlier than usual. By eight o’clock, he was dressed and shaved, he had arranged his papers, taken his chocolate, and he was on his way. He forgot that the impatience that devoured him was not boiling in the veins of the others. He soon realized this. The Palais de Justice was barely waking up when he arrived there. Not even all the doors were open yet. In the corridors, bailiffs and office boys, half-awake, were stretching themselves, exchanging their street clothes for their official suits. Others, in shirtsleeves, were sweeping and dusting, with a thousand precautions, however, and in such a way as not to set in motion the dunes of dust whose level rises every day. Through the window of the changing rooms, the suit-hires were shaking out the lawyers’ gowns, sad black rags at this moment, magic togas in court, when they release waves of eloquence and swarms of arguments. In the courtyards, a few little lawyers’ clerks were mischievous while waiting for the registry or the registration offices to open. Mr. Segmuller, who had to consult the imperial prosecutor, went first to the public prosecutor’s office. No one had arrived. Out of frustration, he went to lock himself in his office, his eye on his clock, almost astonished at the slowness of the hands in moving. At ten minutes past nine, Goguet, the smiling clerk, appeared and was greeted with: Ah! Here you are at last! which must have left him in no doubt about the good investigating judge’s mood. Goguet, however, was early. Goguet, pressed by curiosity, had hurried to arrive. He wanted to apologize, to clear himself, but Mr. Segmuller shut his mouth sharply enough to take away any desire to reply. “Come now,” he thought, “the wind is blowing from the wrong direction this morning.” And bending his back under the gust, he philosophically slipped on his black lustrine sleeves, went to his little table, and seemed to be absorbed in sharpening his quills and preparing his paper. Deep down, he was annoyed. The previous evening, while talking with Madame Goguet about the enigmatic defendant, various ideas had come to him that he would not have been sorry to submit to the judge. The opportunity would have been poorly chosen. Mr. Segmuller, usually the personification of phlegm , the quintessentially serious, methodical, and self-centered man, had become unrecognizable. He paced up and down his office, stood up, sat down, gesticulated, and finally seemed unable to stay still. “Decidedly,” the clerk said to himself, “the tangle is not sorting itself out, Mai’s affairs are going very well!” At that moment he was delighted; he was siding with the accused, so great was his resentment. From nine-thirty to ten o’clock, Mr. Segmuller rang for his bailiff no fewer than five times, and five times he asked him the same questions: “Are you sure that Mr. Lecoq, the agent of the security service, has not shown up?… Find out… It is impossible that he has not sent someone to me; he must have written to me.” Each time, the surprised bailiff had to reply: “No one has come, there is no letter.” The judge was getting angry. “Can you imagine that,” he murmured, “I am on tenterhooks and this agent is allowing himself to be kept waiting… Where can he have gone?…” Finally, he ordered the bailiff to see if Lecoq could not be found nearby, in some tavern; to look for him and bring him to him quickly, very quickly. Once the bailiff had left, Mr. Segmuller seemed to regain his calm. “We are here that we are wasting precious time,” he said to Goguet, ” I have decided to question the widow Chupin’s son… that will always be a fact. Go and tell them to bring him to me, Lecoq must have delivered the extraction order…” Less than a quarter of an hour later, Polyte entered the examining magistrate’s office. He was indeed, from head to toe, from the oilcloth cap to the tapestry slippers with their garish designs, he was indeed the man in the portrait that poor Toinon-la-Vertu enveloped in her passionate glances. Only, the portrait was flattered. The photograph had not been able to capture the expression of base cunning on that rogue’s face, the impudence of the smile, the cowardly ferocity of the shifty eye . It had been unable to render either the withered and leaden complexion, nor the disturbing blinking of the eyelids, nor the thin lips, pinched over short, sharp teeth. At least it must have been difficult for him to surprise everyone. To see him was to judge him at his worth. When he had answered the preliminary questions, declared that he was thirty years old and born in Paris, he assumed a pretentious pose and waited. But before approaching the serious subject of the interrogation, M. Segmuller wanted to try to dismantle this rogue’s self-assurance a little. He therefore harshly reminded Polyte of his position, giving him to understand that the judgment to be reached in the case in which he found himself implicated would largely depend on his attitude and his answers . Polyte listened with a nonchalant and somewhat ironic air. In fact, he cared infinitely little about the threat. He had consulted and believed himself to be sure of his account. He had been told that he could not be sentenced to more than six months in prison. What did a month more or less matter to him! The judge, who caught this feeling in the scoundrel’s eye, shortened the sentence. “Justice,” he said, “is waiting for information from you about some regulars at your mother’s cabaret. ” “There are a lot of them, sir,” replied the rascal in a hoarse, drawling, and vile voice. “Do you know one named Gustave? ” “No, sir. To insist would have risked alerting Polyte, if by chance he was acting in good faith; so Mr. Segmuller continued: “You must, at least, remember Lacheneur? ” “Lacheneur?… It’s the first time I’ve heard that name.” “Be careful!… The police know a lot of things. ” The rascal didn’t flinch. “I’m telling the truth, sir,” he insisted, “what interest would I have in lying?” The door, which opened abruptly, cut him off. Toinon-la-Vertu appeared, her child in her arms. At the sight of her husband, the unfortunate woman gave a cry of joy and advanced quickly… But Polyte, stepping back, pinned her to the spot with a terrible look. “You would have to be my enemy,” he declared fiercely, “to claim that I know a man named Lacheneur!… I would want to kill anyone who told that lie; yes, to kill him… and I would never forgive!” Chapter 27. Having received orders to search everywhere for Lecoq, and to bring him back if he found him, M. Segmuller’s bailiff had set out. The commission did not displease him; it was an opportunity to leave his post, a pretext for a legitimate stroll in the surrounding area. He went to the Prefecture first, by the longest route, of course, by the quay. But at the Permanence, where he addressed himself, no one had seen the young policeman. He then fell back on the taverns and drinking establishments surrounding the Palais de Justice and living off his clientele. A conscientious agent, he went everywhere, and even having met acquaintances, he felt obliged to be polite at 50 centimes a can… But no Lecoq! He was returning home in a hurry, a little worried about the length of his absence, when A car coming at full speed stopped short in front of the gate of the Palace. Mechanically, he looked. Oh joy! From this car, he saw Lecoq get out, followed by Father Absinthe and the daughter-in-law of the Widow Chupin. Suddenly, he regained his composure, and it was in the most important tone that he transmitted to the young policeman the order to follow him without losing a minute. “The judge has already asked you many times,” he said, ” his impatience is extreme, he is in a murderous mood, and you can expect to have your head washed in a beautiful way. ” Lecoq smiled as he climbed the stairs. Didn’t he have to present the most victorious of justifications? He was even enjoying the judge’s pleasant surprise, and it seemed to him that he saw his irritated face suddenly brighten. And yet the embarrassment of the bailiff and his insistence were to have the most disastrous result. In such a hurry, the young policeman saw no harm in opening the door of Mr. Segmuller’s office without knocking, and he had the fatal inspiration to push forward the unfortunate woman whose testimony could be so decisive. He was stunned to the spot when he saw that the judge was not alone, when he recognized in this witness being questioned the man in the portrait, Polyte Chupin. At once, he understood the extent of the fault, its consequences, and how important it was to prevent all communication, all exchange of thoughts between husband and wife. He sprang to Toinon-la-Vertu, and shaking her roughly by the arm, he ordered her to leave at once. “You can’t stay here,” he shouted to her, “come on!” But the poor creature was completely bewildered, faint with emotion, trembling more than a sheet of paper. Apart from her husband, she was incapable of seeing or hearing anything. To find this wretch whom she adored, what a delight! But why was he drawing back, why was he giving her fierce looks? She wanted to talk, to explain herself… So she struggled a little, oh! very little, yet enough to catch Polyte’s words, which entered her brain like a bullet. Seeing this, the young policeman seized her by the waist, lifted her like a feather, and carried her into the gallery. This scene had not lasted a minute in all, and M. Segmuller was still formulating an observation, when already the door was closed and he found himself alone with Polyte. “Eh! eh!…” thought Goguet, quivering with pleasure, “here’s something new!…” But as his asides never made him neglect his work as clerk, he leaned into the judge’s ear to ask: “Should I write down what the witness said last? ” “Certainly!” replied Mr. Segmuller, and word for word, if you please! He stopped; the door opened once more and gave way to the bailiff who, timidly and with a very sheepish air, handed over a note and left. This note, written in pencil by Lecoq, on a sheet torn from his notebook, told the judge the woman’s name, and gave him briefly, but clearly, the information gathered. “That fellow thinks of everything…” murmured Mr. Segmuller. The meaning of the scene he had only glimpsed now burst before his eyes. Everything was explained to him! He regretted all the more bitterly this fatal encounter which had just taken place in his office. But who should he blame ? Himself, himself alone, his impatience, his lack of foresight when, his bailiff having left, he had sent for Polyte Chupin. However, as he could not suspect the enormous influence of this circumstance on the investigation, he was not alarmed and only thought of taking advantage of the valuable documents that were coming to him. “Let’s continue,” he said to Polyte. The scoundrel made a gesture of careless assent. His wife gone, he had not moved, apparently indifferent to everything that was happening. “Is that your wife we just saw?” asked Mr. Segmuller. “Yes.” “She wanted to throw herself at your neck, you pushed her away. ” “I didn’t push her away, sir. ” “You kept her at a distance, if you prefer, you didn’t spare a glance for your child that she was holding out to you… why? ” “It wasn’t the time to think about sentiment. ” “You’re lying. You simply wanted to look at her while you dictated her statement. ” “I!… I dictated her statement?” ” Without that assumption, the words you spoke would be unintelligible. ” “What words?” The judge turned to his clerk. “Goguet,” he said, “read the last sentence to the witness again.” The clerk, in his monotonous voice, read: I would want to kill anyone who said I knew Lacheneur. “Well!” insisted Mr. Segmuller, “what does that mean? ” “It’s easy to understand, sir.” Mr. Segmuller stood up, enveloping Polyte in one of those judge’s looks which, as a defendant puts it, make the truth swarm in the guts. “Enough lies,” he interrupted. “You ordered your wife to be silent, that’s the fact. What’s the point? And what can she tell us? Do you think the police don’t know about your relationship with Lacheneur, your conversations when he was waiting for you in his car near the vacant lots, the hopes of fortune you had in him? Believe me, make up your mind to confess while there is still time, don’t embark on a path that leads to serious danger.” One is an accomplice in more than one way! It is certain that Polyte’s impudence received a rude shock. He seemed confounded, and lowered his head, stammering an unintelligible answer. However, he persisted in remaining silent, and the judge, who had just used his strongest weapon in vain, despaired. He rang and gave the order to take the witness back to prison, after taking precautions, however, to ensure that he could not see his wife again. Polyte left, Lecoq appeared. He was in despair, he was tearing his hair out.
“And to think,” he repeated, “that I did not get everything she knew from this woman , when it was so easy! But I knew you were expecting me, sir, I was hurrying, I thought I was doing the right thing… ” “Rest assured, this misfortune can be repaired. ” “No, sir, no, we will know nothing more about this unfortunate woman.” It was impossible to get a word out of her since she saw her husband. She loved him with the wildest passion; he had an all-powerful influence over her. He had ordered her to be silent, and she would be silent. The young policeman was only too right. M. Segmuller had to admit it to himself from the first steps Toinon-la-Vertu took in his office. The poor creature was crushed with grief. It was easy to recognize that she would have given her life to take back the words that had escaped her in her attic. Polyte’s look had frozen her and stirred the most sinister apprehensions in her heart. Conceiving of nothing of which he could not be guilty, she wondered if his testimony would not be a death sentence. So she refused to answer anything other than: No! or: I don’t know! to all the questions, and she retracted everything she had said . She swore that she had been mistaken, that people had misunderstood her, that her words were being abused. She affirmed with the most horrible oaths that she had never heard of Lacheneur. Finally, when people pressed her too hard, she burst into tears, and convulsively clutched her child to her breast, which uttered piercing cries. In the presence of this idiotic obstinacy, blind as that of a brute, what could be done? Mr. Segmuller hesitated. He felt moved with pity for this unfortunate woman. Finally, after a moment of reflection: “You can withdraw, my good wife,” he said gently, “but remember that your silence harms your husband more than anything you could say.” She withdrew… or rather, fled, while the judge and the security officer exchanged dismayed glances. “I said so!” thought Goguet. The defendant’s shares are rising. I’ll bet a hundred sous for the defendant. Chapter 28. In a single word, Delamorte-Felines defined the investigation: A struggle. A terrible struggle, between justice, which wants to get to the truth, and crime, which claims to keep its secret. As an agent of society, invested with discretionary powers, subject only to his conscience and the law, the investigating judge has the most formidable apparatus at his disposal. Nothing hinders him, no one commands him. Administration, police, armed force, he has everything at his command. At a word from him, twenty agents, a hundred if necessary, will stir up Paris, search France, explore Europe. If he thinks that a man can shed light on an obscure point, he summons this man to appear in his office, and he arrives, even if he is a hundred leagues away. So much for the judge. Alone, behind bars, most often incommunicado, the man accused of a crime finds himself as if cut off from the number of the living. No sound from inside reaches the cabin where he lives under the watchful eye of the guards. What is said, what is happening… he does not know. Which witnesses have been questioned and what they have answered, he does not know. And he is reduced to wondering, in the terror of his soul, to what extent he is compromised, what evidence has been gathered, what damning charges are about to crush him. So much for the accused. Well!… despite this terrible disproportion of weapons between the two adversaries, sometimes the man with the secret wins. If he is sure that he has left behind no evidence of the crime, if he has no previous record that stands against him, he can, impregnable in a system of absolute denial, defy all the efforts of justice. Such was, at that moment, the situation of May, the mysterious incident. Mr. Segmuller and Lecoq admitted it to each other with a pain mixed with vexation. They could have hoped, they must have hoped that Polyte Chupin or his wife would give the word of the irritating problem… this hope vanished. The system of the so-called bonisseur artist emerged intact from this perilous ordeal, and more than ever his identity remained problematic. “And yet,” cried the judge with a desolate gesture, “and yet these people know something, and if they wanted to… ” “They won’t. ” “Why? What interest guides them? Ah! That’s what we must discover. Who will tell us by what dazzling promises we were able to ensure the silence of a wretch like Polyte Chupin? What reward does he count on, then, for braving, by keeping silent, a real danger?” Lecoq did not reply. The contraction of his eyebrows betrayed the prodigious effort of his reflection. “There is one question, sir,” he said finally, “which embarrasses me more than all these put together, and which, if it were resolved, would make us take a great step forward. ” “Which one? ” “You are wondering, sir, what was promised to Chupin?… I am wondering who promised him something?” “Who?… The accomplice, obviously, that elusive artisan of the intrigues that envelop us.” At this tribute to an all-too-real audacity and skill, the young policeman clenched his fists. Ah! he was terribly angry with him, with that accomplice, who, in the alley of Butte-aux-Cailles, had taken the police prisoner. He could not forgive him for having dared, as his quarry, to take on the role of hunter. “Certainly,” he replied, “I recognize his hand. But what artifice does he have?” imagined this time? That he had come to an agreement at the station with the widow Chupin, nothing better, we know the means. But how did he manage to get to Polyte, a prisoner, and closely watched? He did not say his whole thought, he softened it, and yet M. Segmuller gave a start, like a man surprised by a somewhat strong proposition. “What are you telling me!” he said. “What! You think that one of the prison employees has allowed himself to be corrupted?” Lecoq shook his head with a rather equivocal air. “I don’t believe anything,” he replied, “I don’t suspect anyone, especially; I’m looking. Was Chupin warned, yes or no? ” “Yes, certainly. ” “So it’s an established fact! Well! To explain it, we must suppose intelligence in the prison or a visit to the visiting room. It was difficult, in fact, to imagine a third alternative. Mr. Segmuller was very visibly troubled. He seemed to hesitate between several options, then suddenly deciding, he got up and took his hat, saying: “I want to be sure of this, come, Mr. Lecoq.” They left, and, thanks to this narrow and dark gallery which connects the mousetrap and the Palace of Justice, they arrived in two minutes at the Depot. The food had just been distributed to the accused, and the director, while supervising the service, was walking in the first courtyard with Gévrol. “As soon as he saw the judge, he advanced towards him with marked eagerness . “No doubt, sir,” he began, “you have come for the accused Mai? ” “Indeed.” Since it was a question of an accused, Gévrol thought he could approach without indiscretion. “I was just talking about it with the inspector of security,” continued the director, “and I was telling him how satisfied I have reason to be with this man’s conduct. Not only was there no need to put him back in the straitjacket, but his mood has completely changed. He eats with a good appetite, he is as gay as a lark, he jokes with the guards… ” “Bast!” said the General, seeing himself caught, despair had seized him… Then he reflected that he would probably save his head, that life in the penal colony is still life, and that, besides, one leaves the penal colony.” The judge and the young policeman exchanged a worried look. This gaiety of the so-called mountebank could only be the result of his role; but it could also come from the acquired certainty of thwarting the investigations, and who knows?… from some favorable news received from outside. This last supposition presented itself so vividly to Mr. Segmuller’s mind that he shuddered. “Are you sure, Mr. Director,” he asked, “that no communication from outside can reach the accused who are in solitary confinement? ” This doubt seemed to truly wound the worthy official. To suspect his dungeons!… Might as well suspect him himself! He could not help raising his arms to heaven as if to call him to witness this insane blasphemy. “Yes, I am sure of it!” he cried. “But you have never visited the secret prisons! You have never seen the luxury of precautions that surround them, the triple bars, the hoods that intercept the day… And I am not counting the sentry who walks night and day under the windows. That is to say, a swallow, not even a swallow, would not reach the prisoners. This description alone should have been reassuring. “So I’m at peace,” said the judge. “Now, Mr. Director, I would like some information about another defendant, a certain Chupin. ” “Ah!… I know, a detestable rascal. ” “That’s right. I’d like to know if he didn’t receive any visitors yesterday. ” “The devil!… I’ll have to go to the registry, sir, if I want to answer you with any certainty. That is to say, Wait, here’s a guard, that little fellow over there, under the porch, who can give us some information. Hey! Ferrau!… he shouted. The warden, summoned, ran up. “Do you know,” he asked him, “if the man named Chupin was in the visiting room yesterday? ” “Yes, sir, I was even the one who took him there.” Mr. Segmuller smiled with satisfaction; this answer dispelled all suspicion. “And who was visiting him?” Lecoq asked quickly. “A person of all types, a man, wasn’t he? Very red-faced, with a snub nose… ”
“Excuse me, sir, it was a woman, his aunt, he told me. ” The same exclamation of surprise escaped the judge and the young policeman, and together they asked: “What was she like?” “Short,” replied the supervisor, “chubby, very blonde, the air of a very good woman, not wealthy, for example… ” “Could she be one of our fugitives from over there?” Lecoq said aloud. Gevrol burst into a roar of laughter. “Another Russian princess,” he said. But the judge seemed to take little pleasure in the joke. “You’re forgetting yourself, officer!” he said sternly. “You forget that the jokes you make to your comrade reach me!” The General understood that he had gone too far, and while giving Lecoq his most venomous look, he apologized profusely. M. Segmuller did not seem to hear him. He bowed to the director, and, signaling to the young policeman to follow him, he said: “Run to the Prefecture,” he said, “and find out how and under what pretext this woman obtained the card that allowed her to see Polyte Chupin.” Chapter 29. Left alone, Mr. Segmuller returned to his study, guided more by the mechanical instinct of habit than by deliberate will. All the faculties of his intelligence were at work, and such was his preoccupation that he, politeness itself, forgot to return the greetings he received as he passed. How had he proceeded until now? At random; according to the whim of events, he had run to the most urgent, or at least to what he judged to be so. Like a man lost in the darkness, he had wandered at random, without direction, walking towards everything that, in the distance, seemed to him to be a light. Running like this exhausts oneself in vain; he admitted this to himself, recognizing the imperative and pressing necessity of a plan. He had not been able to take the place with a single blow; he was forced to resign himself to the methodical slowness of a regular siege. And he hurried, for he felt the hours slipping away from him. He knew that time is an additional darkness, and that the search for a crime becomes more difficult the further one moves from the moment it was committed. How many things still need to be done, however. Shouldn’t he have confronted the victims of the incident, the widow Chupin and Polyte, with the corpses? These sad confrontations are fertile in unexpected results. Leverd, the murderer, was about to be released for lack of evidence, when, suddenly placed in the presence of his victim, his expression changed and he lost his confidence. A point-blank question then forced a confession from him. Mr. Segmuller also had witnesses to question: Papillon the coachman, the concierge of the house on the rue de Bourgogne, where the two women had taken refuge for a moment, and finally Mrs. Milner, the mistress of the Hôtel de Mariembourg. Was it not equally essential to hear as soon as possible a certain number of people from the Poivrière district, some of Polyte’s comrades and the owners of the Arc-en-Ciel ballroom where the victims and the incident had spent part of the evening? Certainly, one could not expect great clarification from each of these witnesses in particular. Some were ignorant of the facts, others had an interest in distorting them which remained a problem. But each of them had to contribute their share of conjectures, say something , express an opinion, propose a fable. And there shines the genius of the examining magistrate, accustomed to testing one against the other the most contradictory answers, trained to extract from a certain quantity of lies an average which is more or less the truth. Goguet, the smiling clerk, was finishing, on the judge’s instructions , filling out a dozen citations, when Lecoq reappeared. “Well?” the judge shouted to him. Really the question was superfluous. The result of the process was visibly written on the young policeman’s face. “Nothing,” he replied, “still nothing. ” “What!… We don’t know who was given a card to visit Polyte Chupin at the Depot? ” “Pardon, sir, we know only too well.” We find here a new proof of the accomplice’s infernal skill in taking advantage of every circumstance. The card used yesterday is in the name of a sister of the widow Chupin, Rose-Adélaïde Pitard, a seasonal vendor in Montmartre. This card was issued eight days ago , upon an apostilled request from the police commissioner. It is stated in this request that the woman Rose Pitard needs to see her sister for the settlement of a family matter. The judge’s surprise was so great that it reached an almost comical expression. “Could this aunt be in on the plot then?” he murmured. The young policeman nodded. “I don’t think so,” he replied. “It wasn’t her, in any case, who was in the visiting room at the Depot yesterday.” The employees of the Prefecture remember Chupin’s sister very well, and besides, we found her description… She is a woman over five feet tall, very dark, very wrinkled, tanned and as if tanned by the rain, the wind and the sun, finally about sixty years old. Now, yesterday’s visitor was small, blond, white and did not look more than forty-five years old… “But if that is so,” interrupted Mr. Segmuller, “this visitor must be one of our fugitives. ” “I don’t think so. ” “Who would she be, in your opinion? ” “Eh!… the landlady of the Mariembourg hotel, that clever girl who made such fun of me.” But let her be careful!… There are ways to verify my suspicions… The judge was barely listening, moved as he was by the inconceivable audacity and marvelous devotion of these people who risked everything to ensure the incognito of the incident. “It remains to be seen,” he said, “how the accomplice was able to learn of the existence of this pass. ” “Oh! Nothing so simple, sir. After having come to an agreement at the post of the Italian barrier, the widow Chupin and the accomplice understood how urgent it was to warn Polyte. They looked for a way to get to him, the old woman remembered her sister’s map, and the man went to borrow it under the first pretext that came along… “That’s it,” Mr. Segmuller agreed, “yes, that’s it, there’s no room for doubt… You’ll have to find out, though… ” Lecoq made the resolute gesture of a man whose impatient zeal needs no stimulation. “And I’ll find out!” he replied, “let your Honorable Judge leave it to me. Nothing that can pave the way for success will be neglected. Before this evening, I’ll have two observers under arms, one in the alley of Butte-aux-Cailles, the other at the door of the Hôtel de Mariembourg. If the accomplice in the incident has the idea of visiting Toinon-la-Vertu or Madame Milner, he’s caught.” Our turn must come, eventually !… But this was not the time to waste oneself on words, especially on boasting. He broke off, and went to pick up his hat, which he had left on entering. “Now,” he said, “I will ask the judge for my freedom; if he has any orders to give, I will leave him on guard in the gallery.” one of my colleagues, Father Absinthe. I have to use our two most important pieces of evidence: Lacheneur’s letter and the earring … “Go on then,” said Mr. Segmuller, “and good luck!… Good luck!…” The young policeman certainly hoped so. If, up until this moment, he had so easily accepted his successive failures, it was because he believed himself well assured of having in his pocket a talisman that would give him victory. “I would be more than simple,” he thought, “if I were not capable of discovering the owner of an object of this value. Now, this owner found, we at once ascertain the identity of our enigma-man. Above all, it was a question of knowing which shop the earring came from . Going from jeweler to jeweler, asking: Is this your work? would have been a bit long. Fortunately, Lecoq had a man at hand who would be very happy to put his knowledge at his service. He was an old Dutchman named Van-Nunen, without rival in Paris when it came to jewelry or costume jewelry. The Prefecture used him as an expert. He was considered rich and was much richer than anyone supposed. If his attire was always sordid, it was because he had a passion: he adored diamonds. He always had a few on him, in a small box that he took out ten times an hour, like an appraiser taking out his snuffbox. The good man received the young policeman kindly. He put on his spectacles, examined the jewel with a grimace of satisfaction, and in an oracular tone said: “The stone is worth eight thousand francs, and the setting comes from Doisty, rue de la Paix.” Twenty minutes later, Lecoq arrived at the famous jeweler’s. Van-Nunen hadn’t been mistaken. Doisty recognized the earring; it had definitely come from his shop. But who had he sold it to? He couldn’t remember, for it had been three or four years ago. “Just wait,” he added, “I’ll call my wife, who has an incomparable memory.” Mrs. Doisty deserved this praise. It only took a glance for her to confirm that she knew this earring and that the pair had been sold for twenty thousand francs to the Marquise d’Arlange. “In fact,” she added, looking at her husband, “you should remember that the Marquise only gave us nine thousand francs in cash, and that we had the greatest difficulty in the world getting the balance.” The husband did indeed remember this detail. “Now,” said the young policeman, “I would like to have the address of this marquise.” “She lives in the Faubourg Saint-Germain,” replied Madame Doisty, “near the Esplanade des Invalides… ” Chapter 30. As long as he had been under the jeweler’s eye, Lecoq had had the strength to keep his impressions secret. But once outside the shop, and when he had taken a few steps on the sidewalk, he gave himself up so completely to the delirium of his joy that the surprised passers-by had to wonder if this handsome fellow was not mentally ill. He was not walking, he was dancing, and while gesticulating in the most comical manner, he threw a victorious monologue into the wind. “At last!” he said, “this affair is emerging from the depths where it had been agitated until now. I come to the real actors in the drama, to these high-ranking characters whom I had guessed at. Ah! Mons Gevrol, illustrious General, you wanted a Russian princess! You will have to be content with a simple marquise… We do what we can! But this dizziness gradually dissipated, common sense regained its rights.
The young policeman felt well that he would not have enough of the fullness of his composure, of all his means and all his sagacity to bring this expedition to a successful conclusion. How would he go about it, when he was in the presence of this marquise, to obtain a confession without reservation, to wring from her with all the details of the scene of the incident, the name of the incident? –We must, he thought, present ourselves with the threat in our mouths, and frighten her, that’s all there is to it!… if I give her time to recognize herself, I will know nothing. He broke off, he arrived in front of the Marquise d’Arlange’s mansion, a charming residence built between courtyard and garden, and before entering the square, he judged it essential to recognize the interior. –So it is there, he murmured, that I will find the answer to the riddle. There, behind these rich muslin curtains, our fugitive of the other night is dying of fear. What must be her anguish, since she realized the loss of her earring… For nearly an hour, established under a carriage entrance, he remained in observation. He would have liked to glimpse one of the guests of this beautiful residence. Faction lost! Not a face appeared in the windowpanes , not a valet crossed the courtyard. Impatient, he resolved to begin an investigation in the surrounding area. He could not attempt his decisive step without having some idea of the people he would find. Who could be the husband of this audacious woman, who was slumming like in Regency novels, and running around in her pretentiousness at night at the Chupin cabaret? Lecoq was wondering who and where to contact, when on the other side of the street, he noticed a wine merchant smoking in the doorway of his shop. He went straight to him, playing well the embarrassment of a man who has forgotten an address, and politely asked him for the Hôtel d’Arlange. Without a word, without deigning to remove his pipe from his mouth, the merchant extended his arm. But there was one way to make him communicate, and that was to enter his establishment, have something served to him, and offer him a toast. So did the young policeman, and the sight of two full glasses miraculously loosened the worthy merchant’s tongue. One could not have come to a better place to obtain information, for he had been established in the neighborhood for ten years and honored by the clientele of gentlemen household staff. “Even so,” he said to Lecoq, “I pity you if you go to the marquise’s to collect a bill. You will have time to learn the way to her house before seeing the color of her money. There is one whose creditors will never let the doorbell freeze. ” “The devil!… So she is poor? ” “She!… She is well known to have about twenty thousand livres a year, not counting this hotel. But you know, when one spends double one’s income every year…” He stopped short to show the young policeman two women who were passing, one over forty years old and dressed in black, the other very young, dressed like a boarder. “And look,” he added, “here just happens to be the Marquise’s granddaughter , Miss Claire, passing by with her governess, Miss Schmidt. ” Lecoq was dazzled. “Her granddaughter?” he stammered. “Why, yes… her late son’s daughter, if you prefer. ” “How old is she then?” ” About sixty, at least. But no one would give her that , no. She’s one of those old houses built of lime and sand, who live to be a hundred years old, like trees. And wicked, she is! I wouldn’t want to tell her what I think of her two inches from her nose.” She would sooner have slapped me than swallowed that glass of brandy… “Excuse me,” interrupted the young policeman, “she doesn’t occupy this hotel alone… ” “My God!… yes, all alone with her granddaughter, the housekeeper and two servants… But what’s gotten into you?… The fact is that poor Lecoq was whiter than his shirt. It was the magical edifice of his hopes that was crumbling at the words of this man like a child’s fragile house of cards. “I have nothing,” he replied in an uncertain voice, “oh!… nothing at all.” everything. But he would not have endured the horrible torture of uncertainty for another quarter of an hour . He paid and went to ring the doorbell. A servant came to open the door, looked at him with a distrustful eye, and replied that Madame la Marquise was in the country. Obviously, they were doing him the honor of taking him for a creditor. But he knew how to insist so skillfully, he made it so clear that he had not come to demand money, he spoke so forcefully of urgent matters, that the servant finally left him alone in the middle of the hall, telling him that he was going to check again whether Madame had really gone out. She had not. The next moment the valet came back to tell Lecoq to follow him, and after guiding him through a large salon of very dilapidated magnificence, he introduced him into a boudoir hung with pink fabric. There, on a chaise longue, by the fireside, an old lady of terrible appearance, tall, bony, very well-dressed and heavily made up, was knitting a strip of green wool. She looked the young policeman up and down until his face rose to a crimson , and as he seemed intimidated, which flattered her, she spoke to him almost softly. “Well! my boy,” she asked, “what brings you here?” Lecoq was not intimidated, but he recognized with pain that Madame d’Arlange could not be one of the women from Chupin’s cabaret. Nothing in her certainly corresponded to the description given by Papillon. Then the young policeman remembered how small the footprints left in the snow by the two fugitives were, and the foot of the marquise, which showed above her dress, was of heroic grandeur. “Oh, are you mute?” insisted the old lady, raising her voice. Without answering directly, the young policeman took the precious earring from his pocket and placed it on the chest of drawers, saying: “I am bringing you this, madame, which I found, and which belongs to you, I am told. ” Madame d’Arlange put down her knitting to examine the jewel. “It is nevertheless true,” she said after a moment, “that this ear stud belonged to me. It was a whim I had four years ago, and which truly cost me twenty thousand livres. Ah!… Mr. Doisty, who sold me these diamonds, must have earned a pretty penny. But I have a granddaughter to raise!… Pressing financial needs forced me shortly afterward to part with this ornament, which I regretted, and I sold it. ” “To whom?” Lecoq asked sharply. “Eh!” said the shocked marquise; “what is this curiosity!” “Excuse me, madame, it’s just that I would so much like to find the owner of this pretty thing…” Madame d’Arlange looked at her young visitor with a curious and surprised air : “Probity!” she said. “Oh! oh!… And not a penny, perhaps…” “Madame!” ” Good! good!… that’s no reason to turn as red as a poppy, my boy.” I gave these locks to a great German lady,—for the nobility still has some fortune in Austria,—to the Baroness de Watchau…— And where does this lady live, Madame la Marquise? —At Père-Lachaise, since last year she let herself die… The women of today, a waltz and a draft , and they’re done for!… In my time, after each gallop, the young girls emptied a large glass of sweet wine and placed themselves between two doors… And we carried ourselves as you see. —But, Madame, insisted the young policeman, the Baroness de Watchau must have left heirs, a husband, children? —No one but a brother who has a position at the court of Vienna, and who was unable to move. He sent orders to auction off all his sister’s belongings, not excepting her wardrobe, and the money was sent to him there. Lecoq could not overcome a movement of despair. “What a misfortune!” he murmured. “Huh!… Why?” said the old lady. “From this affair, my boy, the diamond remains with you, and I am delighted; it will be a just reward for your honesty. If chance, to its rigors, also adds irony, the measure is complete. Thus the Marquise d’Arlange added unknown refinements to Lecoq’s torture , while she wished him, with all appearances of good faith, never to find the woman who had lost this rich jewel. To lose his temper, to shout, to give vent to his anger, to reproach this old woman for her ineptitude, would have been an ineffable relief to him. But, then, what would become of his role as a good, honest young man?… He knew how to force his lips to twist into a smile; he even stammered out a thank you for so much kindness. Then, as he had nothing more to expect, he bowed low and left backward, stunned by this new blow. Fate, clumsiness on his part, miraculous skill on the part of his adversaries, he had seen all the threads he had counted on to guide the investigation out of the inextricable labyrinth into which it was increasingly lost snap in his hands. Was he again taken in by a new farce? It was not admissible. If the accomplice in the incident had taken the jeweler Doisty as a confidant, he would have asked him casually and simply to reply that he did not know to whom these diamonds had been sold, or even that they did not leave his house. The very complication of the circumstances revealed their sincerity. Then the young policeman had other reasons not to doubt the marquise’s allegations. A certain look he had caught between the jeweler and his wife shed a dazzling light on the facts. This look signified that, in their opinion, the Marquise, in taking these diamonds, had risked a little speculation more common than one might think, and one with which many women of real society are accustomed. She had bought on credit in order to sell at a loss, but for cash, and profit momentarily from the difference between the sum given on account and the sale price. Lecoq nevertheless decided that he would get to the bottom of this incident. He wanted, in the absence of other satisfaction, to spare himself remorse like that which had pursued him since he had so naively allowed himself to be taken in by appearances at the Hôtel de Mariembourg. He therefore returned to Doisty, and under a pretext plausible enough to remove all suspicion of his profession, he obtained communication of his business books. In the year indicated, in the month fixed, the sale was entered, not only in the daybook, but also in the general ledger. The nine thousand francs were entered into the account, and successively, at distant intervals, the various payments from the Marquise were entered into the account. That Madame Millier had managed to slip a false entry into her police register was understandable. It was impossible that the jeweler had falsified his entire accounting for four years. The reality is indisputable, and yet the young policeman did not consider himself satisfied. He went to the Rue du Faubourg-Saint-Honoré, to the house where the Baroness de Watchau lived during her lifetime, and there he learned from a compliant concierge that upon the death of this poor lady, her furniture and effects had been taken to the mansion on the Rue Drouot. “In fact,” added the concierge, “the sale was made by M. Petit.” Without losing a minute, the young policeman ran to the auctioneer who specialized in rich furniture. Mr. Petit remembered very well the Watchau sale, which had caused a certain stir at the time, and he soon found the voluminous minutes in his boxes. Many jewels were described there, with the auction figure and the names of the successful bidders opposite, but none referred, even vaguely, to the cursed stud earrings. Lecoq showed the diamond he had in his pocket; the auctioneer didn’t remember seeing it. But that meant nothing, so many had passed through his hands!… What he was affirming was that the Baroness’s brother, her heir, had kept nothing for himself from the estate, not a ring, not a trinket, not a pin, and that he had seemed in a hurry to receive the amount of the sales, which amounted to the pleasing figure of one hundred and sixty-seven thousand five hundred and thirty francs, expenses deducted. “So,” Lecoq said thoughtfully, “everything the Baroness owned has been sold?” “Everything. ” “And what is her brother’s name? ” “Watchau, too…” The Baroness had doubtless married one of her relatives. This brother, until last year, held a prominent post in diplomacy; he resided in Berlin, I believe…. Certainly, this information had nothing to do with prevention, which despotically occupied the young policeman’s mind, and yet it solidified in his memory. “It’s strange,” he thought, as he returned home, “on all sides, in this affair, I’m running into Germany. The incident claims to come from Leipzig, Mrs. Milner must be Bavarian, now here is an Austrian baroness.” It was too late that evening to do anything; the young policeman went to bed, but the next day, at first light, he resumed his investigations with renewed ardor. Only one chance of success now seemed to remain to him: the letter signed Lacheneur, found in the pocket of the false soldier. This letter, the half-erased letterhead proved it, had been written in a café on Boulevard Beaumarchais. Discovering it in which was child’s play. The fourth lemonade seller to whom Lecoq showed this letter recognized his paper and ink perfectly. But neither he, nor his wife, nor the lady at the counter, nor the waiters, nor any of the regulars skillfully questioned one after the other, had ever heard, in their lives, the three syllables of this name: Lacheneur. What to do, what to try?… Was everything then absolutely hopeless? Not yet. Hadn’t the dying soldier declared that this brigand Lacheneur was a former actor?… Clinging to this feeble indication like a drowning man to the thinnest plank, the young policeman resumed his run, and from theater to theater, he went asking everyone, the doormen, the secretaries, the artists: “Don’t you know an actor named Lacheneur?” Everywhere he received unanimous noes, embellished with backstage jokes . Quite often they would add: “What is your artist like?” That was precisely what he could not say. All his information was limited to Toinon-la-Vertu’s phrase: “I found him to have the air of a very respectable gentleman!” That was not a description. And besides, it remained to be seen what Polyte Chupin’s wife meant by the term “respectable.” Did she apply it to his age or to his appearance of fortune? Other times, they would ask: “What roles does your actor play?” And the young policeman would remain silent, for he did not know. What he could not say, what was true, was that Lacheneur, at that moment, was playing a role that would have made him die of grief, Lecoq. In desperation, he resorted to a means of investigation which is the great hobbyhorse of the police when it is in trouble with some problematic character, a banal means which always succeeds because it is excellent. He resolved to go through all the police books of the hoteliers and landlords. Rising before dawn, going to bed well after, he exhausted his days visiting all the furnished houses, all the hotels, all the lodgings in Paris. His errands were in vain. Not once did he come across the name of Lacheneur which stubbornly haunted his brain. Did this name exist? Was it not a pseudonym composed at will? He had not found it in the Almanach Bottin, where one finds, however, all the names of France, the most impossible, the most improbable, those which are formed from the most fantastic assembly of syllables… But nothing was capable of discouraging him, nor of diverting him from this almost impossible task which he had set himself. His obstinacy bordered on monomania. He no longer had, as in the early days, simple fits of anger immediately repressed, he lived in a sort of continual exasperation, which impaired his lucidity. No more theories, subtle inventions, ingenious deductions!… He sought adventure, without order, without method, as Father Absinthe might have done under the influence of alcohol. Perhaps he had come to rely less on his skill than on chance, to free from the darkness the drama that he guessed, that he felt, that he breathed… Chapter 31. If you throw a heavy stone into the middle of a lake, it produces a considerable surge, and the mass of water is agitated right to the edges… But the great movement lasts only a minute; the eddy diminishes as its circles widen, the surface resumes its immobility, and soon no trace remains of the stone, buried henceforth in the mud at the bottom. So it is with the events that fall into the life of each day, however enormous they may seem. It seems that their impression will last for years; madness! Time closes above faster than the water of the lake, and, faster than the stone, they slide into the abysses of the past. This means that after two weeks the dreadful crime of Chupin’s cabaret, this triple incident which had made Paris shudder, which had stirred all the newspapers, was more forgotten than a common assassination from the reign of Charlemagne. Only at the Palace, at the Prefecture and at the Depot, was it remembered. The fact is that the efforts of Mr. Segmuller, and God knows if he had spared himself, had not had a better success than those of Lecoq. Multiple interrogations, skillfully arranged confrontations, captious questions, insinuations, threats, promises, everything had broken against this invincible force, the most powerful at man’s disposal, the force of inertia. The same spirit seemed to animate the widow Chupin and Polyte, Toinon-la-Vertu and Madame Milner, the mistress of the Hôtel de Mariembourg. It was clear from the depositions that all these witnesses had received the accomplice’s confidences and that they were obeying the same learned policy: but what good was this certainty! The attitude of all these people conspired to play the justice game did not vary. Sometimes their looks belied their denials, one could never stop reading in their eyes the unshakeable resolution to keep the truth silent. There were times when this judge, the best of men, crushed by the feeling of the inadequacy of purely moral weapons, began to regret the arsenal of the Inquisition. Yes, in the presence of these allegations whose impudence reached the point of insult, he understood the barbarities of the judges of the Middle Ages, the wedges that broke the patients’ muscles, the red-hot pincers, the question of water, all these terrible tortures that tore out the truth with the flesh. The incident, too, had taken place, and even each day he added a new perfection to his role, like a man who gets used to a strange garment in which he had at first found himself embarrassed. His assurance, in the presence of the judge, grew, as if he had been more sure of himself, as if he had been able, in spite of his sequestration and the rigors of secrecy, to acquire this certainty that the investigation had not advanced a single step. At one of his last interrogations, he had dared to say, not without a very striking hint of irony: “Will you keep me incommunicado for much longer, Your Honor ?… Will I not be released or sent before the Assize Court? Must I suffer for long from this idea which has come to you, I wonder how, that I am a person of all types of body character!… ” “I will keep you,” replied Mr. Segmuller, “as long as you have not confessed. ” “Confessed what?” “Oh! you know that well…” This inscrutable man then shrugged his shoulders, and in that half-sad, half-mocking tone which was his custom, he replied: “In that case, I do not see myself leaving this cursed hut any time soon!” It was because of this conviction, no doubt, that he seemed to be making arrangements for indefinite detention. He had obtained the release of some of the belongings contained in his trunk, and he had shown childlike joy in regaining possession of his belongings. Thanks to the money found on him and deposited with the court, he allowed himself those little treats that are never refused to defendants, who, ultimately, whatever the charges against them, can be considered innocent until the jury has pronounced their verdict. To amuse himself, he had asked for and been given a volume of Béranger’s songs, and he spent his days learning them by heart; he sang them at the top of his voice and with some relish. It was, he claimed, a talent he was acquiring there, and one that would certainly serve him well when he was given the key to the fields. For he had no doubt, he affirmed, of his acquittal. He was worried about the time of the trial, not the outcome. If he was overcome with sadness, it was when he spoke of his profession. He was nostalgic for the stage. He almost cried when he thought of his colorful clown costume, his audience, his patter accompanied by the frenzied music of the fair. Never, moreover, had one seen a more open, more communicative, more submissive, better-natured inmate. It was with marked eagerness that he sought every opportunity to babble. He loved to recount his life, his adventures, his wanderings across Europe, following Mr. Simpson, the freak showman. Having seen a lot, he had retained a lot, and he possessed an inexhaustible fund of good stories and trivial sallies that made the guards swoon with laughter. And all the words of this great chatterbox, as well as his most indifferent actions, were marked by such a stamp of naturalness that the people of the Depot no longer doubted the truth of his assertions. Harder to convince was the director. He had affirmed that this so-called bonisseur could only be a dangerous repeat offender, hiding an overwhelming antecedent; he left no stone unturned to prove it. For fifteen days, Mai was subjected every morning to examination by the rank and file of security agents, regular and irregular. He was then presented to about thirty convicts renowned for their perfect knowledge of the prison population, and who had been transferred to the Depot for this test. No one recognized him. His photograph had been sent to all the penal colonies, to all the central prisons; no one remembered his features. To these circumstances, others were added, which were indeed important, and which pleaded in favor of the defendant. The 2nd office of the Prefecture, which was that of the judicial summaries, found positive traces of the existence of a man named Tringlot, a fairground artist, who could very well be the man in the May version. This Tringlot had been dead for several years. Furthermore, from information obtained in Germany and England, it emerged that a Mr. Simpson was very well known there, in large part reputation on all the fairgrounds. Faced with such evidence, the director surrendered and openly admitted that he had been mistaken. The defendant Mai, he wrote to the investigating judge, is really and truly what he claims to be; doubts in this regard are no longer possible. This was ultimately Gévrol’s opinion. Thus, M. Segmuller and Lecoq remained alone in their opinion. It is true that only they were good judges, since only they knew all the details of an investigation that had remained strictly secret. But no matter! Fighting against everyone is always painful, if not dangerous, even if one were a thousand times right. The Mai affair, as it was called, had transpired; and if the young policeman was overwhelmed with crude mockery as soon as he appeared at the Prefecture, the investigating judge was not immune to friendly irony. More than one judge, meeting him in the gallery, would ask him, with a smile on his lips, what he was doing with his Gaspard Hauser, his man in the iron mask, his mysterious acrobat… Hence, in M. Segmuller and in Lecoq, that exasperation of the man who, having the absolute certainty of a thing, cannot nevertheless demonstrate its exactness. They both lost their appetites, they grew thinner, they turned greener. “My God!” the judge sometimes said, “why did d’Escorval fall !… Without that accursed fall, he would have all my worries, and, at this hour, I would laugh like the others! ” “And I, who thought myself strong!” murmured the young policeman. But the idea never occurred to them to give in. Although of essentially opposed temperaments, each of them, to himself, had sworn to have the answer to this annoying enigma. It was then that Lecoq decided to give up his errands outside and devote himself solely to studying the defendant. “From now on,” he said to Mr. Segmuller, “I will make myself a prisoner like him, and without him seeing me, I will never lose sight of him again!” Chapter 32. Above the narrow cell occupied by the defendant Mai, there was a sort of loft, arranged by the architects for the roofing department. It was tiled, but so low that a man of average height could not stand upright in it. A few thin rays filtering through the gaps in the slates barely lit it with a dubious light. It was there one fine morning that Lecoq came to settle down. It was the hour when the prisoner, under the supervision of two guards, took his daily walk; the young policeman was therefore able, without delay, to proceed with his installation work. Armed with a pick he had brought with him, he unsealed two or three tiles and began to pierce the gaps between the floors. The hole he was making was funnel-shaped. Very wide at the level of the attic floor, it narrowed until it was only two centimeters in diameter at the point where it cut into the cell ceiling. The place where this hole opened had been chosen in advance, so skillfully, that it blended in with the cracks and stains in the plaster, and it was impossible for the prisoner to distinguish it from below. While Lecoq was working, the director of the Depot and Gevrol, who had insisted on accompanying him, stood on the threshold of the attic and sneered. “So, Monsieur Lecoq,” said the director, “this is now your observatory. ” “My God, yes, sir. ” “You won’t be comfortable here.” “I’ll be less ill than you think. I’ve brought a big blanket, I’ll spread it on the ground and lie down on it. ” “So that, night and day, you’ll have an eye on that opening? ” “Night and day, yes, sir. ” “Without eating or drinking?” asked Gevrol. “Pardon! Father Absinthe, whom I relieved of his useless duty at the alley of Butte-aux-Cailles, will bring me my meals, he will do my errands and if necessary will replace me. The envious General burst out laughing, but it was obviously a forced laugh. “Well,” he said, “I feel sorry for you. ” “Possibly. ” “Do you know who you’ll look like, with your eye glued to that hole, spying on the accused?” “Tell me!… Don’t be shy. ” “Well!… you seem to me like one of those old fools of naturalists who put all sorts of little creatures under glass, and spend their lives watching them swarm through a big magnifying glass.
” Lecoq had completed his work, he stood up. “Never was a comparison more apt, General,” he said. ” You ‘ve guessed it, I owe to the memory of the work of these naturalists whom you treat so badly, the idea that I am going to put into execution.” By studying a little creature, as you say, under the microscope, these ingenious and patient scientists end up surprising its morals, its habits, its instincts… Well! what they do for an insect, I will do for a man. “Oh! oh!” said the director, a little astonished. “That’s so, yes, sir. I want this defendant’s secret… I will have it, I swore it.” Yes, I will have it, because, however solidly tempered his energy may be, it is impossible that he should not have a moment of weakness, and at that hour I shall be there… I shall be there, if his will betrays him, if believing himself alone he lets his mask fall, if he forgets himself for a second, if his sleep lets slip an indiscreet word, if he is not completely calm when he wakes, if despair wrings from him a complaint, a gesture, a look… I shall be there, always there!… The implacable resolution of the young policeman communicated to his voice such powerful vibrations that the director of the Depot was stirred by it. He admitted, for a moment, Lecoq’s presumptions, and his mind was seized by the strangeness of this struggle between a defendant striving to keep the secret of his personality, and the investigation which was determined to discover the truth. “By my faith!… my boy,” he said, “you have great courage. ” “And quite useless,” growled Gevrol. He said this deliberately, the touchy inspector, but deep down, he was not entirely reassured. Faith is contagious, and he felt troubled by Lecoq’s imperturbable assurance. If, however, this conscript was going to be right against him, Gevrol, one of the oracles of the Prefecture, what a shame and what a ridiculousness!… Once again, he swore to himself that this restless boy would not grow old in the ranks of the security service, and it was while thinking of the means of ousting him that he added: “The police must have too much money to pay two men to do the work of a mentally ill person!”… The young policeman did not want to note this hurtful observation. For two weeks the General had been annoying him so much that he was afraid, if he started a discussion, he would lose control of himself. It was better to keep quiet and pursue success… Success! That is the revenge that dismays the envious. He was, moreover, eager to see these importunates leave. Perhaps he believed Gevrol capable of arousing the prisoner’s attention by some unusual noise. Finally they left. Lecoq hastened to spread his blanket, and lay down on it at full length, in such a way that he could apply his eye and ear alternately to the hole. In this position, he had an admirable view of the cell. He saw the door, the bed, the table, the chair. A single small space near the window, and the window itself, escaped his gaze. He had barely finished his reconnaissance when the bolts creaked. The prisoner was returning from his walk. He was very cheerful, and was finishing a very interesting story , no doubt, since the guard remained a moment to wait for the end. The young policeman was delighted with the ordeal. He heard as well as he saw. The sounds reached his ear as distinctly as if they had been delivered by an ear trumpet. He did not miss a word of the story, which was slightly coarse. Once the guard had left, Mai paced a few times in his cell; then he sat down, opened his volume of Béranger, and for an hour seemed absorbed in the study of a song. Finally, he threw himself on his bed. Only at the time of the evening meal did he get up to eat with a good appetite. He then returned to his songbook and did not go to bed until lights out. Lecoq knew well that at night his eyes would be of no use to him; but it was then that he hoped to overhear some revealing exclamations. His expectation was disappointed; Mai tossed and turned painfully on his mattresses, he moaned at times; one would have said that he was sobbing, but he did not utter a syllable. The defendant stayed in bed very late the next day. But when he heard the hour for the morning meal strike, eleven o’clock, he jumped up , and after a few entrechats in his cell, he sang at the top of his voice an old song: Diogenes, Under your coat, Free and content, I laugh, I drink without embarrassment… It was only when the guards entered that he stopped singing… Such had been the day before, such was this one; the next day was the same, the following ones were all similar… Singing, eating, sleeping, taking care of his hands and nails, such was the life of this so-called acrobat. His attitude, always the same, was that of a man of a happy nature who was deeply bored. Such was the perfection of the comedy sustained by this enigmatic character, that Lecoq, after six nights and six days spent flat on his stomach in his attic, had not surprised anything decisive. Yet he was far from despairing. He had observed that every morning, at the hour when the distribution of food sets the prison employees in motion, the accused did not fail to repeat his Diogenes song. “Obviously,” the young policeman said to himself, “this song is a signal. What is happening then, over by that window that I cannot see?… I will know tomorrow.” The next day, in fact, he arranged for Mai to be taken for a walk at ten thirty, and he led the director to the prisoner’s cell. The worthy official was not pleased with the disturbance. “What do you intend to show me?” he repeated, what’s so curious?… “Perhaps nothing,” Lecoq replied, “perhaps something very serious…”
And eleven o’clock striking shortly after, he sang the song of the accused: Diogenes, Under your coat… He had just begun the second verse, when a ball of bread crumb the size of a bullet, skillfully thrown over the window hood, rolled at his feet. Lightning striking Mai’s cell would not have terrified the director as much as this harmless projectile. He remained stupid with astonishment, his mouth gaping, his eyes wide open, as if he had doubted the testimony of his senses. What a disgrace! A moment before he would have answered on his bald head for the inviolability of secrets. He saw his prison dishonored, mocked, ridiculed… “A note,” he repeated with a dismayed air, “a note!” Quick as lightning, Lecoq had picked up this message and was turning it over triumphantly between his fingers. “I told you,” he murmured, “that our people got along! ” This joy of the young policeman was to change the stupor of the director into fury . “Ah!… my prisoners are writing to each other!” he cried, stammering with anger. “Ah! my guards are acting as postmen! By the holy name of God!… it won’t happen like this! He was heading towards the door; Lecoq stopped him. “What are you going to do, sir?” he said. “I will gather all the employees of my house, and declare to them that there is a traitor among them, and that he must be handed over to me. I want to make an example. And if within twenty-four hours the culprit is not discovered, the entire staff of the Depot will be replaced. ” Again, he wanted to leave, and the young policeman, this time, had to almost use violence to restrain him. “Calm down, sir,” he said to him, “calm down, moderate yourself… ” “I want to punish! ” “I understand that, but wait until you have all your composure. It may be that the culprit is, not one of your guards, but one of those prisoners whose goodwill you are using, and who help every morning with the distribution… ” “Well! What does it matter…” “Pardon!… It matters a great deal.” If you make a noise, if you say a single word about this, we will never discover the truth. The traitor will not be so mentally ill as to give himself up, but he will be wise enough not to do it again. Let us know how to keep quiet, dissemble, and wait. We will organize strict surveillance and we will catch the rogue in the act. So just were these objections that the director yielded. “Very well,” he sighed, “I will be patient… But let us still see what this breadcrumb contains. ” This is what the young policeman would not consent to. “I warned Mr. Segmuller,” he declared, “that there would undoubtedly be something new this morning, and he must be expecting me in his office. It is the least I can reserve for him the pleasure of breaking this envelope. ” The director of the Depot made a rueful gesture. Ah! he would have given a good thing to keep this incident secret; but he should not even think about it. “Let’s go find the examining magistrate then,” he said, “let’s go…” They left, and all along the way Lecoq tried to demonstrate to this worthy official that he was quite wrong to be affected by a circumstance which was a real stroke of luck for the investigation. Had he, up until that moment, supposed himself more skillful than his prisoners? What an illusion! Has n’t the ingenuity of the prisoner always defied and will not always defy the shrewdness of the guard? But they were arriving, and at the sight of them Mr. Segmuller and his clerk jumped to their feet. They had read, on the young policeman’s face, great news. “What is it?” asked the judge in a moved tone. Lecoq, for all reply, placed the precious crumb of bread on the desk , and a glance paid him for the care he had taken in not opening it. It contained a small wad of that thin paper called onion skin paper. Mr. Segmuller unfolded it and smoothed it over the palm of his hand. But as soon as he glanced at it, his brows furrowed. “Ah!… this note is written in figures,” he said, shaking his desk with a violent blow of his fist. “It was to be expected,” said the young policeman calmly. He then took the note from the judge’s hands, and in a loud and clear voice he recited the numbers on it, exactly as they were , separated by commas: 235, 15, 3, 8, 25, 2, 16, 208, 5, 360, 4, 36, 19, 7, 14, 118, 84, 23, 9, 40, 11, 99… “And there you have it!” murmured the director. “Our discovery will teach us nothing. ” “Why not!” said the smiling clerk. “There is no conventional writing that cannot be deciphered with a little practice and patience. There are people whose job it is… ” “Perfectly exact!” approved Lecoq. “And I myself, once upon a time, was quite adept at this exercise. ” “What!” asked the judge, you hope to find the key to this note! –With time, yes, sir. He was going to slip the paper into his pocket, but Mr. Segmuller asked to examine it and at least try to appreciate the difficulty of the work. “Oh!… it’s hardly worth it,” he said. “It’s not at this moment that one can judge…” He did as he was asked, however, and did well, for his face lit up almost immediately, and he struck his forehead, crying: “I’ve found it!” The same exclamation of surprise, perhaps also of incredulity, escaped the judge, the director, and Goguet. “I would bet so, at least…” Lecoq added cautiously. The defendant and his accomplice have, if I am not mistaken, used the double- book system. This system is simple: The correspondents first agree to use any book, and they each obtain a copy of the same edition. What then does the person who wants to give news do? He opens the book at random and begins by writing the page number . He then only has to look on this page for words that translate his thoughts. If the first word he uses is the twentieth word on the page, he writes the number 20, and he starts counting again, one, two, three, until he finds a word that suits him. If this word comes in the sixth, he writes the number 6, and he continues until he has thus translated all that he had to say. You see now what the correspondent who receives such a note has to do. He looks for the page indicated, and for each number he has a word… “Impossible to be clearer,” the judge approved. “If this note that I am holding here,” Lecoq continued, “had been exchanged between two free people, trying to translate it would be madness. This simple system is the only one that thwarts the efforts of curiosity, because there is no penetration capable of guessing the agreed book. But here such is not the case.” Mai is a prisoner, and he has only one volume in his possession: the songs of Béranger. Let’s go get that book…. Positively, the director was enthusiastic. “I’ll run and get it myself,” he interrupted. But the young policeman stopped him with a gesture. “And above all,” he advised him, “take great precautions, sir, so that Mai doesn’t notice that anyone has tampered with his songs. If he has returned from his walk, bring him out again under some pretext… And, furthermore, let him stay outside as long as we use his songbook… ” “Oh!… trust me,” replied the director. He went out, and such was his haste that, less than a quarter of an hour later , he reappeared triumphantly waving a small 32mo volume. With a trembling hand, the young policeman opened it to page 235 and began to count. The 15th word on the page was: I; the 3rd after that was the word: HIM; the 8th after that: HAVE; the 25th: SAID; the 2nd: YOUR; the 16th: WILL…. Thus, with just these six numbers, a meaning was found: I told her your will…. The three people who witnessed this moving experience could not help but applaud. –Bravo Lecoq!… said the judge. –I would no longer bet a hundred sous for May, thought the clerk. But Lecoq was still counting, and soon, in a voice made to tremble with happy vanity, he was able to translate the entire note. Here is what was written to the defendant: I told her your will, she resigns herself. Our safety is assured, we await your orders to act. Hope! Courage!… Chapter 33. What a disappointment, this laconic and obscure note, after this great fever of anxiety which had kept the witnesses of this scene oppressed and panting. Encrypted or translated, was this letter not a useless weapon in the hands of prevention! Mr. Segmuller’s eye , which had been made to sparkle with hope, went out, and Goguet returned to his opinion, that the accused would get away with it perhaps. “What a misfortune!” said the director with a hint of irony. “What a pity that so much trouble and such surprising insight should be wasted!” Lecoq, whose confidence seemed unshakeable, looked at him mockingly . “Really!” he said, “Mr. Director thinks I’ve wasted my time!… That is not my opinion. This little piece of paper seems to me to establish quite conclusively that if anyone was mistaken as to the identity of the accused, it was not me.” ” So be it!… Mr. Gévrol and I were deceived by probability. No one is infallible. Are you any further ahead?” “Why, yes, sir. As by now it is well known who the accused is not, instead of teasing me and embarrassing me, perhaps someone will help me to discover who he is. ” The tone of the young policeman, his allusion to the ill will he had encountered, hurt the director. But precisely because he felt the blood rushing to his ears, he decided to break off this discussion with an inferior. “You are right,” he said harshly. “This Mai must be some great and illustrious personage. Only, dear Mr. Lecoq, for there is only one, do me the favor of explaining how this very important personage could have disappeared without the police being informed?… A considerable man, such as you suppose, ordinarily has a family, relatives, friends, protégés, very extensive connections ; and of all these people, no one would have raised their voice in the more than three weeks that Mai has been under my lock and key!… Come now, admit it, Mr. Officer, you had not thought about that. The director had just encountered the only serious objection that could be raised to the system of prevention. But Lecoq had perceived it long before him, and it continued to preoccupy him, and he had tortured his mind without finding a satisfactory answer. No doubt he was about to lose his temper, as he always does when one feels a chink in the armour is touched, but Mr Segmuller intervened. “All his recriminations,” he said in his calm voice, “will not make us take a single step forward. It would be wiser to plan a way to take advantage of the situation. ” Recalled thus to the present situation, the young policeman smiled; all his resentment vanished. “The method is already found,” he said. “Oh!…” “And I believe it to be infallible, sir, because of its simplicity. It consists quite simply in substituting a prose for that of the author of this note. What could be less difficult, now that I have the key to the correspondence!… I will be free to buy a copy of Béranger’s songs. But, believing he is addressing his accomplice, he will reply in all sincerity… ” “Pardon!” interrupted the director, “how will he answer you?” “Ah!… you are asking too much of me, sir.” I know how they keep his letters, it’s already very pretty… As for the rest, I’ll observe, I’ll look, I’ll see… Goguet didn’t hide an approving grimace. If he had ten francs to expose, he would have bet them on Lecoq’s game. “To begin with,” continued the young policeman, “I’m going to replace this message with another of my own… Tomorrow, at soup time, if the accused makes his signal in music, Father Absinthe will throw the thing to him through the window, while I, from my observatory, watch for the effect.” He was so delighted with his idea that he took the liberty of ringing, and when the bailiff appeared, he gave him a ten-sou piece and asked him to run and get him a notebook of onion-skin paper. “With pilgrims so cunning and so distrustful, one must neglect no precautions.” When he was in possession of the paper, which was, in truth, quite similar to that of the note, he sat down at the clerk’s table, and arming himself with Béranger’s volume he began to compose his false missive, copying as much as possible the form of the mysterious correspondent’s ciphers. This task did not take him ten minutes. Fearing to make some blunder, he had reproduced the terms of the real letter, limiting himself to altering its meaning absolutely. Here is what he wrote: I told her your will; she will not resign herself. Our security is threatened. We await your orders. I tremble. This done, he rolled up the paper like the other, and put it back in the breadcrumb , saying: “Tomorrow we will know something! Tomorrow!” The twenty-four hours which separated the young policeman from the decisive moment, seemed to him like a century to be crossed. What expedients to devote himself to, to hasten the belated flight of time! He explained clearly and minutely to Father Absinthe what he would have to do, and sure of having been understood, certain that he would be obeyed, he returned to his attic. The evening seemed very long to him, and even more interminable at night, for he found it impossible to close his eyes… When day broke, he saw that his prisoner was awake and sitting on the foot of his bed. Soon he jumped down and paced his cell with a jerky step. He was very agitated, contrary to his usual habit, he gesticulated and at intervals let slip a few words, always the same ones. “What a cross, my God!” he repeated, “what a cross! ” “Good!” thought Lecoq, “you’re worried, my boy, about your daily note that you haven’t received… Patience, patience. One of my kind is going to happen to you…” Finally, the young policeman distinguished outside the movement that precedes the distribution of food. They came and went, hooves clattered on the flagstones, the guards shouted… Eleven o’clock struck on the old cracked clock, the accused began his song: Diogenes, Under your coat, Free and content… He did not finish this third verse; the light sound of the ball of bread crumb falling on the flagstone had stopped him short. Lecoq, his head in his hole, held his breath and watched with all the strength of his soul. He did not miss a movement of the man, not a shudder, not a blink of an eyelid. Mai had begun to look up, towards the window, first, then all around him, as if it were impossible for him to explain the arrival of this projectile. It was only after a little while that he decided to pick it up. He kept it in the palm of his hand, examined it curiously. His features expressed profound surprise. One would have sworn that he was intrigued beyond measure. Soon, however, a smile rose to his lips. He made a shrug of his shoulders that could be interpreted as follows: How simple I am! and with a quick gesture, he broke the breadcrumb. The sight of the paper rolled up neatly made him anxious… “Oh, that!” Lecoq said to himself, completely disoriented, “what are these manners?” The defendant had opened the note and was looking, with a frown, at the aligned figures that seemed to mean nothing to him… But suddenly he rushed against the door of his cell, shaking it with his fists and shouting: “Help!… guard!… help!…” A guard ran up; Lecoq heard his footsteps in the corridor. “What do you want?” he asked through the wicket. “I want to speak to the judge. ” “All right!… We’ll have him notified.” “Right away, won’t you? I want to make some revelations. ” “Let’s go!” Lecoq didn’t listen any further. He rushed down the steep staircase of the attic, and with feverish feet he ran to the Palace to tell M. Segmuller what was happening. “What does this mean?” he thought. “Are we now approaching the denouement?” What is certain is that my note had nothing to do with the defendant’s determination. He could only decipher it with the help of his volume, he did not touch it, so he did not read it. No less than the young policeman, Mr. Segmuller was astonished. They returned together to the prison, in all haste, very worried, followed by the clerk, that inevitable shadow of the examining magistrate. They reached the end of the gallery, when they met the director who arrived all excited by this person of all types of body word: revelation. The worthy official doubtless wanted to open an opinion, the judge cut him off. “I know everything,” he said to him, “and I am running…” Arriving at the narrow corridor of secrets, Lecoq quickened his pace to get ahead of the examining magistrate, the director and the clerk. He told himself that by tiptoeing forward, he might surprise the defendant in the act of deciphering the note, and that in any case, he would have time to take a look inside the cell. Mai was sitting at his table, his head in his hands. At the creaking of the bolts, drawn by the director’s own hand, he jumped up, tore off his headdress, and stood respectfully, waiting to be addressed. “You sent for me?” the judge asked him. “Yes, sir. ” “You claim to have revelations to make? ” “I have important things to tell you. ” “Very well! These gentlemen are going to withdraw…” M.
Segmuller was already turning towards Lecoq and the director, to ask them to leave him to his duties, but the defendant, with a movement of prostration, stopped him. “It’s not worth it,” he said; I shall find myself very happy, on the contrary, to speak in front of everyone. “Speak, then.” Mai did not have the order repeated. He got into a three- quarter position, his chest puffed out, his head back, as always, since the beginning of the investigation, when he was preparing to parade his eloquence. “This is to tell you, gentlemen,” he began, “that I am a very honest man. The profession has nothing to do with it, does it? One can be at a curio shop for the salesmanship, and have heart and honor… ” “Oh!… spare us your reflections. ” “You wish, sir… I am willing. So, in two words, here is a little piece of paper that was thrown to me just now. There are numbers on it that must mean something, but in vain I looked, I saw nothing but fire.” He handed the note encrypted by Lecoq to the judge, who took it, and added: “It was rolled up in a ball of breadcrumbs.” The violence of this unexpected, unheard-of blow clearly stunned everyone present. But the prisoner, without appearing to notice the effect produced, continued: “I calculate that whoever sent it to me has gone to the wrong window. I know very well that it is very wrong to denounce a fellow prisoner, it is cowardly, and one risks bringing him trouble, but one is forced to be prudent when, like me, one is accused of being a murderer and is under the influence of great inconvenience.” A horribly significant gesture of the edge of his hand on his neck left no doubt as to what he meant by inconvenience. “And yet I am innocent,” he murmured. The judge was the first to regain the free disposal of all his faculties. He concentrated all the power of his will in a glance, and staring at the accused: “You’re lying!” he said slowly. “It was for you that this note was intended. ” “For me!” I am the greatest of fools, then, since I ‘m calling you to give it to you. For me! Why then didn’t I keep it? Who knew, who could know, that I had received it?
All this was said with such a marvelous appearance of good faith; Mai’s eye was so clear, her intonation so just, her reasoning so specious, that the director, troubled, began to doubt again. “And what if I proved to you that you were lying,” insisted Mr. Segmuller, “what if I demonstrated it to you, right there, right now?” ” For example! You’d be clever! Oh! Sir, pardon, excuse me, I meant to say…” But the judge was not concerned with a more or less measured expression. He signaled Mai to be silent, and, addressing Lecoq: “Show the defendant, officer,” he said, “that you have discovered the key to his correspondence…” Suddenly the prisoner’s face changed. “Ah! It was that police officer,” he said in a hollow voice, “who found that. That same officer who assures me that I am a person of all types, lord.” He looked the young policeman disdainfully at him, and added: “If that’s so, my account is settled.” When the police absolutely want a man to be guilty, they prove that he is guilty, it is well known… And when a prisoner does not receive tickets, an officer who wants promotion knows how to send them to him. This so-called mountebank reached an expression of such crushing contempt that the furious Lecoq seemed ready to respond. He restrained himself, however, at a sign from the judge, and taking the volume of Béranger from the table, he proved to the defendant that each number on the ticket corresponded to a word on the indicated page, and that all these words indeed formed a meaning. This damning testimony did not seem to embarrass Mai. After admiring this system of correspondence like a child in ecstasies before a new toy, he declared that only the police could commit such machinations. What could be done in the face of such obstinacy?… M. Segmuller did not even think of insisting, and he withdrew followed by the people who had accompanied him. Until he reached the director’s office, where he went, he didn’t say a word. But he let himself fall into an armchair, saying: “We must admit defeat… This man will remain what he is: an enigma. ” “But why this charade he has just played?” asked the director; “I can’t explain it. ” “Eh!” replied Lecoq, “don’t you see that he hoped to persuade the judge that the first note had been fabricated by me, for the needs of the opinion I support? The attempt was bold, but the importance of the result must have seduced him. If he had succeeded, I would have been dishonored, and he would have had May left, without question, for everyone. Only, how could he have known that I had seized a note, and that I was spying on him from the attic?… That will probably never be explained. The director and the young policeman exchanged glances, no one of any kind of body of suspicion . “Eh!” Eh!… thought the director, why, indeed, should the note that fell at my feet not be the work of this subtle fellow?… His friend Absinthe could have served him for the first as well as for the second… –Who knows, Lecoq said to himself, if this brave director did not confide everything to Gévrol? With that, my jealous General would have had a qualm about playing a trick on me in his way!… –Ah!… it’s all the same, cried Goguet, it is very unfortunate that such a well-staged comedy has not been a success!… This word brought the judge out of his reflections. –An unworthy comedy!… he pronounced, and one that I would never have authorized, if the passion to arrive at the truth had not blinded me. It is an affront to the majesty of justice to make it an accomplice in such miserable deceptions!… Lecoq, at these words, turned pale, and a tear of rage shone in his eyes. It was the second affront in the last hour. After the insult of the accused, the outrage of the prosecution!… –I have failed, he thought, I am disowned!… That is in order. Ah!… if only I had succeeded!… Vexation alone had wrung these harsh words from M. Segmuller; they were harsh, he regretted them and did everything to ensure that Lecoq would forget them. For they saw each other again in the days following this unfortunate attempt, and every morning they had a long conference, when the young policeman came to report on his progress. It was because Lecoq was still searching, with an obstinacy re-tempered by incessant jeers; he was searching, sustained by one of those cold rages which maintain energy for years. But the judge was absolutely discouraged. “It’s over,” he said; “all means of investigation are exhausted, I surrender. The defendant will go to the Assize Court and will be acquitted or condemned under the name of Mai. I don’t want to think about this affair anymore. ” He said this, but worries, the dark sorrow of a failure, sometimes hurtful allusions, the anxiety of a decision to make impaired his health, and he was obliged to stay in bed. It was eight days since he had left his house when one morning he saw Lecoq appear. “You see, my poor boy,” he said to him, “this enigmatic incident is fatal to his investigating judges… Ah!… he has tricked us, he will save his personality. ” “Perhaps!” replied the young policeman. “There is one last way to get to this man’s secret; he must free him… ” Chapter 34. The supreme expedient that Lecoq was preparing was not his own invention and had nothing particularly new about it. At all times, the police have known, when necessary, how to close their eyes and half-open the door of a dungeon. No one mentally ill, for example, no one mentally ill and very naive, who believes in these favorable negligences, and allows themselves to be caught in this dazzling trap of the freedom offered. Not all prisoners are, like Lavalette, protected by a royal connivance, denied in the past with lofty oaths, today proven. We would rather count those who, like the unfortunate Georges d’Etchérony, are only released under the benefit of an inventory, and are recaptured as soon as they have fulfilled the task of involuntary informers that was arranged for them. Poor d’Etchérony!… He believed he had deceived the vigilance of his guards. When he recognized his error and his fault, he shot himself in the heart. Alas! he survived the dreadful wound long enough to hear one of the friends he had betrayed hurl at him this insult that he did not deserve: traitor. However, it is only as a last resort, very rarely, in special cases, that one decides to secretly lend a hand to the escape of a prisoner. In short, the method is dangerous. If one resorts to it, it is because one hopes to gain some important advantage from it, such as getting one’s hands on a criminal association. A member of the gang is captured; he has the integrity of his infamy and refuses to name his accomplices. What should we do? Must we resign ourselves to judging him, to condemning him alone? Eh! No! It is better to leave lying around within his reach, by the greatest of chances, a file that will allow him to saw through his bars, a rope that will make it easier for him to climb a wall… He escapes, but like a cockchafer that flies off with a thread in its leg, he drags a piece of chain, a squad of subtle observers. And at the moment when he boasts to his associates whom he has joined, his audacity and his happiness, the company finds itself caught in a dragnet. Mr. Segmuller knew all this, and many other things besides, and yet, at Lecoq’s suggestion, he sat up and said: “Are you mentally ill?…” “I don’t think so, sir.” “To help the accused escape! ” “Yes,” the young policeman replied coldly, “that is indeed my plan. ” “A chimera!” “Why is that, sir? After the murder of the Chaboiseau couple at La Chapelle-Saint-Denis, they managed to catch the culprits, you must remember that. But a theft of 150,000 francs in cash and in banknotes had been committed, this large sum was not found and the incidents obstinately refused to say where they had hidden it. It was a fortune for them if they escaped the executioner, but the children of the victims were ruined. It was then that Mr. Patrigent, the investigating judge, was the first, I will not say to advise, but to suggest that one might well risk entrusting the key to the fields to one of these wretches. His advice was followed, and three days later the escapee was surprised in a mushroom quarry, in the process of digging up the treasure. I say then that our accused… “Enough!” interrupted Mr. Segmuller, “I do not want to hear any more about this affair. I had, it seems to me, forbidden you to remind me of it…” The young policeman lowered his head with a little air of hypocritical submission. But he was watching the judge out of the corner of his eye, and noticed his agitation. “I can be silent,” he thought, “without fear; he will return to it.” He did, in fact, the next moment. “Very well,” he said, “I suppose your man is out of prison, what are you doing?” “Me, sir! I cling to him like poverty clings to a poor man; I never lose sight of him; I live in his shadow… ” “And you imagine that he will not notice this surveillance? ” “I will take my precautions. ” “One glance and a chance, and he will recognize you. ” “No, sir, because I will disguise myself. A police officer who is not capable of outdoing the most skilled actor in disguise is only a mediocre policeman.” For a year I have been practicing making my face and my person what I want, and I can be at will old or young, dark or blond, a proper man or a horrible barrier prowler… –I did not suspect you of this talent, Monsieur Lecoq. –Oh!… I am still very far from the perfection I dream of!… I dare, however, sir, to undertake to present myself to you, within three days, and to speak to you for half an hour without you recognizing me… Monsieur Segmuller did not reply, and it seemed clear to Lecoq that he presented objections with the hope of seeing them destroyed rather than with the desire to make them prevail. –I believe, my poor boy, continued the judge, that you are strangely mistaken. We have been able, you and I, to appreciate the penetration of this mysterious defendant. His sagacity is strange, isn’t it, so marvelous that it defies imagination… Do you think that this strong man won’t smell your crude trap? He’ll guess, come on, that if he’s allowed to regain his freedom, it can only be to use it against him. –I’m not mistaken, sir, May guess, I know it. –Well! then? –Then, sir, I said to myself this: Once free, this man will find himself strangely embarrassed by his freedom. He won’t have a penny, he has no job… What will he do, how will he live? However, he must eat! He will struggle for a while, but in the long run he will tire of suffering… The days when he has neither shelter nor a piece of bread, he will think that he is rich… Will he not seek to get closer to his family? Yes, obviously. He will do his best to get help, he will try to give news to his friends… That is where I await him. Months will have passed, no surveillance will have revealed itself to him… he will risk some decisive step. And I will appear, an arrest warrant in my hand… –And if he flees, if he goes abroad? –I will follow him there. One of my aunts left me a hovel back home worth a dozen thousand francs, I will sell it, and I will eat the price down to the last penny, if necessary, in pursuit of revenge. This man has cheated me like a child, me who thought I was so strong… I’ll have my turn. “And what if he were to slip through your fingers, escape you?” Lecoq burst out laughing like a self-assured man. “Let him try!” he said. “I’ll answer for him with my life. The misfortune is that Lecoq’s enthusiasm only cooled the judge. ” “Decidedly, officer,” he continued, “your idea is a good one. Only, Justice, you understand, cannot get involved in such intrigues. All I can promise is my tacit approval. Go to the Prefecture, see your superiors… ” With a truly desperate gesture, the young policeman interrupted Mr. Segmuller. “To propose such a thing,” he cried, “me!… Not only would it be refused, but I would be given notice, if indeed I am not already struck off the police force… ” “You!… when you have conducted yourself so well in this affair!…” “Alas! Sir, that is not everyone’s opinion. Tongues have been wagging for the past eight days since you’ve been ill. My enemies have been able to take advantage of the latest comedy of May!… Ah!… yes, that man is clever. They say at this time that it was I who, with a view to advancement, imagined all the romantic details of this affair. They say that I alone raised this question of identity which is not one. According to the people at the Depot, I would have invented a scene which did not take place at Chupin’s, supposed accomplices, suborned witnesses, fabricated false pieces of evidence, finally wrote the first note as well as the second, duped Father Absinthe, and mystified the director. –Devil!… said Mr. Segmuller, what are they saying about me, in that case?… The cunning policeman knew how to assume the most embarrassed countenance. “Dam!… sir,” he replied, “it is claimed that you have allowed yourself to be deceived by me, that you have not examined my evidence…” A fleeting blush crimsoned M. Segmuller’s forehead. “In a word,” he said, “it is considered that I am your dupe and… a fool.” The memory of certain smiles as he passed, various allusions that had remained in his heart, decided him. “Well!… I will help you, M. Lecoq,” he cried. “Yes, I want you to confound your mockers… I will get up immediately and go to the Palace with you. I will see the Attorney General, I will speak, I will act, I will answer for you!” Lecoq’s joy was immense. Never, no, never, would he have dared to flatter himself that he would obtain such assistance.
Ah!… M. Segmuller could now ask him to go through the fire for him; he was ready to rush into it. However, he was prudent enough, he had enough self-control to keep his expression concerned. It is like that, victories that one must be careful not to let be suspected, under penalty of instantly losing all the benefit. Certainly, the young policeman had put forward nothing that was not rigorously exact, but still there are ways of presenting the truth, and he had displayed a little too much skill to put the judge in half in his grudges and make him an interested auxiliary. Mr. Segmuller, however, after the cry torn from his skillfully wounded vanity, after the first explosion of his anger, returned to his accustomed calm. “I suppose,” he said to Lecoq, “that you have reflected on the stratagem to be employed to release the accused without the connivance of the administration being revealed. ” “I didn’t think about it for a minute, sir, I admit. What’s the point, anyway!” This man knows only too well what suspicions and anxious surveillance he is under, not to be on the alert. However cleverly I manage to give him an opportunity to escape, he will recognize my hand and be wary. The shortest and safest course is to simply leave the door open for him… –Perhaps you are right?… –Only, there is one precaution that I believe is necessary, indispensable, which seems to me an essential condition for success… The young policeman seemed to be searching for his words so painfully that the judge felt he had to help him. “Let’s see this precaution?” he said. “It would consist, sir, in giving the order to transfer Mai to another prison… Oh! any one, your choice. ” “Why, please? ” “Because, sir, I would like Mai to be placed in the absolute impossibility of giving news of himself to the outside world, of warning his elusive accomplice… ” The proposal seemed to strangely surprise Mr. Segmuller. “So you consider him poorly guarded at the Depot?” he said. “Oh! sir, I am not saying that.” I am even convinced that since the affair of the note, the director has redoubled his vigilance… But, finally, this mysterious incident had intelligence at the Depot, we had material, evident, irrefutable proof, and what’s more… He stopped before the expression of his thought, like all those who feel that what they are going to say will seem enormous. “And what’s more?” insisted the intrigued judge. “Well then, sir, here, I will be completely frank with you… I find that Gévrol enjoys too much freedom at the Depot; he is at home there, he comes and goes, goes up, goes down, goes out and comes back in, without anyone ever thinking to ask him what he is doing, where he is going, what he wants… For him, no instructions, and he would show the director, who is a very honest man, stars at midday… I am suspicious of Gévrol…. –Oh!… Monsieur Lecoq!… –Yes, I know, the accusation is rash, but one is not master of one’s presentiments and Gévrol worries me. Did the defendant know, yes or no, that I was watching him from the attic and that I had caught a first note? Obviously yes, his last scene proves it…. –That is my opinion. –How did he know that?… He probably didn’t guess. For eight days I have been torturing myself to find the solution to this problem… I am wasting my time. Gevrol ‘s intervention explains everything. Mr. Segmuller, at this very supposition, turned pale with anger. “Ah!… if I could believe that,” he cried, “if I were sure!… Do you have any proof, are there any clues? ” The young policeman nodded. “I have my hands full of proof,” he replied, “that I don’t know if I would open them. Wouldn’t that be closing off all my future? If I succeed in my profession, I must expect many other betrayals. Don’t all professions have their rivalries and their intolerances? And note, sir, that I am not attacking Gevrol’s probity . For a hundred thousand francs, cash, on the table, he would not release a defendant… But he would hide ten accused from justice, on the sole hope of making a point of me, who is giving him offense. How many things these few words explained, how many enigmas that remained obscure they provided the key to!… But the judge could not follow the young policeman on this ground. “It is enough,” he said to him, “to go into the drawing-room for a few moments, I will dress and I am with you… I will send for a carriage; I must hurry if I want to see the Attorney General today… ” Usually careful to the point of meticulousness, Mr. Segmuller did not take a quarter of an hour to dress that day. Soon he appeared in the room where Lecoq was waiting, and in a brief tone said to him:
“Let us go.” They were about to get into the carriage, when a servant whose proper attire indicated a servant of a good house, advanced quickly towards Mr. Segmuller. “Ah!… it’s you, Jean,” said the judge, “how is your master? ” “Better and better, sir. He sent me to get news of the gentleman and ask him how the case is going.” “Always at the point I told him in my letter. Greet him for me and tell him I’m well again.” The servant bowed, Lecoq took a seat near his examining magistrate, and the cab set off. “This boy,” continued M. Segmuller, “is d’Escorval’s valet . ” “The judge who…” “Precisely. He sends him to me every two or three days, to find out what we’re doing with our enigmatic May. ” “Is M. d’Escorval concerned about it?” “Extremely, and I understand why, since it was he, ultimately, who initiated the investigation, and who would have continued it without his fatal fall. Perhaps he regrets this investigation and says to himself that he would have conducted it better than I did.” We would get along well, if it were possible, for I would give a good thing to see him in my place…. But this substitution would not have been to Lecoq’s liking. –It is not, he thought, that terrible judge who would ever have consented to the steps I have just obtained from Mr. Segmuller. He had every reason to congratulate himself, for the judge did not spare himself . He was one of those who, taking a long time to decide, never change their minds and go through to the end without turning their heads. That very day, Lecoq’s plan was adopted in principle, except to agree on the details and to settle the day. That same afternoon, the widow Chupin obtained her provisional release. There was no longer any need to worry about Polyte. Brought before the criminal court for the theft in which he was implicated, he had been, to his great surprise, sentenced to thirteen months in prison. From now on, Mr. Segmuller had nothing to do but wait, and this was all the easier for him since the Easter holidays had arrived, and he was able to go to the provinces, near his family, to seek a little rest and freedom of mind. Returning to Paris on the last day of the holidays, Sunday, he had stayed at home when he was told about a servant—sent by the employment office—to replace his own, whom he had dismissed. He was a man who looked forty years old, very red-faced, with thick red hair and very personable red sideburns, rather tall than short, of strong build and stiff under his sharply cut clothes. He explained in a calm tone and with a very pronounced Norman accent, that for twenty years he had served only people of study, a doctor and a notary, that he was familiar with the customs of the Palace, that he knew how to dust off papers without making a mess… In short, he expressed himself so well, that while reserving twenty-four hours for information, the judge took from his pocket and handed him the louis of the denier à Dieu. But the man, then, suddenly changing his attitude and voice, burst out laughing and said: “Does Mr. Judge still believe that Mai will recognize me?” “Monsieur Lecoq!” said the amazed judge. “Himself, sir, and I have come to tell you that if you will be so kind as to summon Mai for questioning, all measures have been taken for her escape… It will be tomorrow if you please.” Chapter 35. When an investigating judge at the Seine court wishes to question a defendant confined in one of the prisons— except the Depot, since it communicates directly with the Palais de Justice—this is how things happen. The judge gives a bailiff an extraction order whose formula alone, imperative and concise, would be enough to give an idea of the all-powerful nature of the investigating magistrate. It states: The warden of the remand center of—- will deliver to the bearer of this order, the named—-, defendant of—-, to bring him before us in our office, at the Palais de Justice, and then reinstate him in the said remand center. Nothing more, nothing less, a signature, the seal, and everyone hastens to obey. But from the moment he is provided with this order, until the moment of the reinstatement, the director is relieved of his responsibility. Come what may, he has the right to wash his hands of it. Also, what a hassle for the journey of the thinnest crook, what ceremonies, what precautions. The designated prisoner is put into one of those gloomy prison cars, which can be seen parked by the day at the Quai de l’Horloge or in the courtyard of the Sainte-Chapelle, and he is securely locked in one of the compartments. This car takes him to the Palace, and there, while waiting for his turn to be interrogated, he is placed in one of the cells of this sad waiting prison which was formerly called the mousetrap. It is always within the very walls of the remand center that the accused gets into the car, he always gets out in an interior courtyard where all the exits are closed and guarded. On both the way in and out, the prisoner is surrounded by guards. On the way, he is under the eye of several guards, some in the corridor that separates the compartments, others in the cabriolet, near the driver. Finally, Paris guards on horseback always escort the carriage. Also, the boldest and most skillful criminals readily admit that it is almost impossible to escape from this rolling jail during the journey. The administration’s statistics count only thirty escape attempts in ten years. Of these thirty attempts, twenty-five were absolutely ridiculous. Four were discovered before their authors could have entertained serious hopes. Only one, that of Gourdier, in broad daylight, rue de Rivoli, almost succeeded; he was fifty paces from the carriage, which was still speeding, when a policeman stopped him. However, it was on all these circumstances that Lecoq’s plan for May’s escape was based, this plan of childish simplicity, as he ingenuously admitted. It consisted of imperfectly closing the May compartment when leaving the prison, and forgetting it there when the car, after having poured its load of rogues into the mousetrap, would go as usual to wait on the platform for the return time. There was a hundred to one bet that the accused would hasten to take advantage of this oversight, to take to the fields. Everything was therefore prepared and arranged in accordance with Lecoq’s intentions, for the day he had indicated, that is to say for the first Monday after the Easter holidays. The extraction order was drawn up and given to an intelligent chief guard, with the most minute instructions. The prison car designated for the transport of the so-called acrobat was not to arrive at the Palace until around noon. And yet, at nine o’clock, one of those old Parisian urchins, who almost make one believe in the fable of Venus rising from the waves, seem so truly born from the foam of the stream, was strolling around the Prefecture. He was dressed in a shabby black wool blouse and oversized checked trousers, held in at the waist by a leather belt. His boots betrayed furious races in the mud of the suburbs, his cap was ignoble, but his pretentiously knotted red scarf tie could only be a gift of love. He had a pale complexion, dark circles under his eyes, a shifty expression, and a scanty beard. His yellowish hair, plastered to his temples, was cut squarely above the nape of his neck and shaved underneath, as if to save the executioner a hard time. Seeing his gait, the sway of his hips, the movement of his shoulders, examining the way he held a cigarette and spit between his teeth, Polyte Chupin would have extended his hand to him as if to a friend, to a Camaro, to a zig. It was April 14, the weather was fine, the atmosphere warm, the tops of the chestnut trees of the Tuileries were green on the horizon, this The rascal must have been happy to be alive, happy to be doing nothing. He went back and forth along the Quai de l’Horloge, which so many shameful feet trample on in the early hours, dividing his attention between passers-by and the sand-pickers working on the Seine. Sometimes he crossed the road and went to say a few words to a respectable old gentleman with glasses and a long beard, neatly dressed, wearing filosele gloves, who had all the appearance of a small pensioner, and who seemed to have a particular curiosity for optician’s shops . From time to time, a police officer passed by, going to report, and immediately the pensioner or the rascal would run to him and ask for some information out of thin air. The police officer would answer and pass by, and then the two companions would join up laughing and say: “Well!… here’s another one who doesn’t know us.” And they had good reasons to be happy, serious reasons to be proud. Of the twelve or fifteen officers they accosted in turn, not one recognized them as two colleagues, Lecoq and Father Absinthe. They were indeed them, however, armed and prepared for this hunt whose hazards they could not foresee, for this pursuit, which must be mysterious and relentless like that of savages. In the mind of the young policeman, this audacious test was decisive. From the moment when everyday companions, people accustomed to sniffing out all the tricks of costume, allowed themselves to be taken in by his disguise and that of Father Absinthe, Mai must undoubtedly be taken in. “Ah! I am not surprised that no one recognizes me,” Father Absinthe repeated, “since I do not recognize myself! Only you, Mr. Lecoq, could transform me into a benign rentier, I who have always looked like a disguised gendarme!… But the time for reflections, useful or not, was over. The young policeman had just noticed, on the Pont au Change, a police van arriving at a trot. “Look out, old fellow,” he said to his companion, “here’s our man being brought in! Quickly to our post, remember the instructions and keep your eyes open!” Nearby, on the quay, was a building site half-enclosed by planks. Father Absinthe went to stand in front of one of the notices stuck on the fence, and Lecoq, noticing a forgotten shovel, grabbed it and began to stir up some sand. They did well to hurry. The rolling jail had just turned the quay. It passed in front of the two security agents and plunged with a loud clanging noise under the archway that led to the mousetrap. Mai was locked up there. Lecoq was certain of it when he saw the head warden sitting in the cabriolet. The carriage remained in the courtyard for a quarter of an hour. When it reappeared, the driver, having got down from his seat, was pulling his horses by the bridle. He parked the heavy vehicle right up against the Palais de Justice, threw a blanket over his animals’ loins, lit a pipe, and walked away… For a good while, the anxiety of the two observers was a real suffering, nothing moved, nothing stirred… But at last, the door of the carriage opened gently with infinite precautions, and a pale, frightened head appeared… the head of Mai. With a quick glance, the prisoner explored the surroundings. No one passed. Then, with the agility and precision of a cat, he jumped down, closed the door silently, and began to walk in the direction of the Pont au Change… Chapter 36. Lecoq breathed. He was left to wonder if some trivial circumstance, forgotten or neglected, had not dislocated all his combinations. He was left to wonder if the enigmatic defendant had not refused the perilous freedom which was offered to him. Crazy worries!… Mai was escaping, not thoughtlessly, but with premeditation. Between the moment he felt alone, forgotten in his badly closed compartment, and the instant he half-opened the door, enough time had passed for a man of his strength, gifted with prodigious perspicacity, to have analyzed and calculated all the consequences of such a grave determination. If, therefore, he fell into the trap that was set for him, it was with full knowledge of the facts. He accepted, perhaps rashly, but not as a dupe, a foreseen struggle. –Now, thought Lecoq, if he accepts this struggle, it is because he sees some chance of emerging victorious. A grave cause for fear for the young policeman; but also a pretext for a delicious emotion. He had an ambition above his station, and every ambitious person is a gambler. He considered the game almost equal between the accused and himself. No more prison, henceforth, no jailers, no judges, none of the formidable apparatus of Justice. They remained alone together, free in the streets of Paris, armed with similar suspicions, obliged to the same tricks, forced to resort to identical precautions to hide from each other. Lecoq had, it is true, an assistant: Father Absinthe. But who was to guarantee that Mai would not be able to reach her elusive accomplice? It was therefore a real duel whose outcome depended solely on the courage, skill, and composure of the two adversaries. All these thoughts together had crossed the mind of the young policeman with lightning speed . He quickly dropped his shovel, and running to a police sergeant who was leaving the Prefecture, he handed him a letter he had ready in his pocket. “Take this quickly to Mr. Segmuller, the investigating judge,” he said, ” it’s for a matter of official business.” The police sergeant wanted to question this rascal, who was corresponding with magistrates, but Lecoq had already set off on the trail of the accused. Mai wasn’t far off. He was walking away as peacefully as could be, his hands in his pockets, his head held high, and his expression confident. Had he considered that it is very dangerous to run around a prison from which someone has just escaped? Had he not rather been saying to himself that if he had been allowed to escape, it was certainly not to be recaptured immediately? Soon it became clear that this last consideration alone dictated his conduct, and that he considered himself very safe, while knowing full well that he must be watched. He was in no hurry when he had passed the Pont au Change, and with the same insolently leisurely pace of a walker, he followed the Quai aux Fleurs and entered the Rue de la Cité. Nothing suspicious about him betrayed the escaped prisoner. Ever since his trunk—that famous trunk which he claimed to have deposited at the Hôtel de Mariembourg—had been returned to him, he never failed, when he went to the hearing, to wear his finest clothes. That day he was wearing a frock coat, a waistcoat, and trousers of black cloth. One would have, seeing him pass, taken him for a well-to-do worker, dressed in honor of Saint-Lundi. But when, after crossing the Seine, he arrived at Rue Saint-Jacques, his manner changed. He seemed to orient himself like a man who no longer recognized himself in a neighborhood that was once familiar to him. His gait, perfectly sure until then, became uncertain. He now walked with his nose in the air, looking right and left, spying on the signs. “Obviously he’s looking for something,” thought Lecoq, “but what?” He soon found out. A second-hand clothes shop having been encountered, Mai entered with visible eagerness. “Hey! Hey!” murmured the young policeman, “I’d gladly bet that This so-called acrobat was a student, and that he happened to sell his excess wardrobe around here to go dancing at the Chaumière… He had taken refuge opposite, under a carriage entrance, and seemed very busy lighting a cigarette. Father Absinthe thought he could approach without inconvenience. “Well!… Monsieur Lecoq,” he said, “here is our man in the process of exchanging his cloth clothes for coarse garments. He will ask for something in return, and we will give him some. You who told me this morning: May without a penny…, that is the best card in our hand! ” “Enough! Before we get upset, let us wait. Who says we will give him money? The clothing merchants hardly ever buy from passers-by except on the condition that they pay them at home. ” Father Absinthe, at this, moved away. He indulged in these reasons, but not Lecoq, who gave them to him. Within himself, the young policeman hurled the harshest insults at himself . Another carelessness, a mistake, a weapon left in the hands of the enemy. How could he, who thought himself so ingenious, have failed to foresee what was coming? It was so easy to leave the defendant in possession of nothing but his miserable prison rags! His repentance was less bitter when he saw Mai leave the shop as he had entered. Luck, which he had spoken of to Father Absinthe without believing it, was deciding in his favor. The defendant staggered as he took his first steps into the street. His face betrayed the supreme anguish of a drowned man who feels the frail plank on which he had founded his only hope of salvation sinking . But what had happened? Lecoq wanted to know. He modulated a vigorous blast on his whistle in a certain way, the agreed signal to warn his companion that he was abandoning the pursuit, and a similar blast having answered him, he entered the shop. The clothes merchant was still at his counter. Lecoq did not amuse himself by parleying. He showed his card, proof of his profession, and in a brief tone asked for information. “What did the man who is leaving here want?” The merchant seemed to be troubled. “It’s quite a story,” he stammered. “Tell it to me!” ordered Lecoq, surprised by the man’s embarrassment. “Oh! It’s very simple. About twelve days ago, I saw an individual enter here, carrying a package under his arm, who asked to speak to me on behalf of one of my countries, whom he named me. “Are you Alsatian?” “Yes, sir!… So, I’m going with this particular individual to the local wine merchant, he asks for a bottle of Superior, and when we’ve toasted, he asks me if I’ll agree to keep the package he’s carrying at home, until one of his cousins comes to claim it. Fearing a mistake, this cousin was supposed to say certain words of gratitude to me, a password, in other words! I flatly refuse. Just last month I almost found myself caught in a case of receiving stolen goods for such kindness! No, you’ve never seen a man so surprised, or so offended. Ah! I can say that he did everything to persuade me, he even promised me a good sum for my trouble… All this only increased my distrust, and I stood firm…” He stopped to catch his breath, but Lecoq was on tenterhooks . “And then?” he insisted harshly. “And then? Lady!” This individual paid for the bottle and left. I had forgotten this when, a moment ago, another individual came in and asked me if I had a package left for him by one of his cousins, and who immediately began to stammer a sentence, the password , no doubt. When I replied that I had nothing, he went white as a sheet, and I thought he was going to faint. All my doubts came back to me. So, when he offered to buy his clothes… barnacle! All that was quite clear. “And what was that cousin of a fortnight ago like?” asked the young policeman. “He was a rather large man, a good person of all types, ruddy, with white sideburns. Ah! I would recognize him well. ” “The accomplice!” exclaimed Lecoq. “You say? ” “Nothing that interests you. Thank you!… I’m in a hurry, you’ll see me again, bye!” Lecoq had not stayed five minutes at the clothes merchant’s; yet, when he left, Mai and Father Absinthe had disappeared. But there was nothing to worry about. When he and his old colleague had drawn up the plan for this manhunt across Paris, the young policeman had endeavored to imagine all the difficulties in order to resolve them in advance. Now, the present case had been foreseen. If one of the two observers found himself obliged to stay behind, the other was to enable him to catch up, thanks to an expedient borrowed from the adventures of Tom Thumb. It was agreed that the one who remained on the trail of May would trace, at intervals, with chalk, on the walls and on the shutters of the shops, arrows whose point, like an outstretched index finger, would indicate the route to follow to the latecomer. To know where to go, Lecoq had only to question the shopfronts in the vicinity. The examination was neither difficult nor long. On the shutters of the third shop after that of the clothes merchant, a superb arrow could be seen, its point turned towards the top of the Rue Saint-Jacques. The young policeman rushed in that direction. He hurried, consumed with anxiety. Ah! his morning’s assurance had just received a rude shock! What a terrible warning this declaration from the old clothes dealer was!… From now on, it was a fact: the mysterious and elusive accomplice of the incident had pushed his foresight to the point of worrying about safety plans for the unlikely event of an escape. The subtle penetration of this man surpassed the supposed miracles of lucid sleepwalkers. “What did this package contain?” thought Lecoq, “clothes, no doubt, a disguise, money, supposed papers, a false passport?” He arrived at Rue Soufflot, he had to stop to ask for directions from the walls. It was a matter of a second. A long arrow, on the shop of a small watchmaker, pointed to the Boulevard Saint-Michel. The young policeman resumed his run. “The accomplice,” he continued, “did not succeed in his attempt near the clothes dealer, but he is not a man to remain on failure… He will certainly have taken other measures.” How to guess them in order to outwit them!… The defendant had crossed Boulevard Saint-Michel and taken Rue Monsieur-le-Prince; Father Absinthe’s arrows spoke volumes. Lecoq followed Rue Monsieur-le-Prince. “One circumstance reassures me,” he murmured, “Mai’s approach to this merchant, and his consternation when he learned that this man had nothing to give him. The accomplice who had informed him of his hopes could not have informed him of his disappointment. So, at this hour, my defendant is truly left to his own resources… the chain of agreement that united him to his accomplice is broken, shattered; there is nothing settled between them, no more common system, no more plans… It is a matter of preventing them from meeting. That is all! How he rejoiced then at having obtained that Mai be removed from the Depot. His triumph, assuming he won the game, would result from this act of defiance. It was believed that the accomplice’s attempt had taken place precisely the day before the defendant was transferred from prison. This assumption explained how he could not have been warned…. Meanwhile, from arrow to arrow, the young policeman had reached the Odéon. There, no more signs, but he saw Father Absinthe under the gallery. The old policeman was standing in front of a bookseller’s display, and he seemed to be giving his full attention to the engravings in an illustrated newspaper. The young policeman, while exasperating the nonchalant gait of these Parisian urchins whose costume he was wearing, went to stand near his colleague. “Well!” he asked him, “and Mai?” “He’s here,” replied the old man, pointing with his eyes at the peristyle of the sad monument. In fact, the accused was sitting on a step of the stone staircase , his elbows resting on his knees, his face hidden between his hands, as if he felt the need to hide from passers- by the expression of his despair. No doubt, at that moment, he saw himself lost. Alone, penniless, in the middle of Paris, what was to become of him? He certainly knew he was being watched, spied on, followed every step, and he understood only too well that at the slightest effort to reach his accomplice, at the first significant step to give him a sign of life, his secret would be lost: this secret which he had considered more precious than life itself, and which until now he had succeeded in saving at the cost of prodigious sacrifices, thanks to prodigious displays of energy and composure. After having contemplated for a long time in silence this very unfortunate man, whom he esteemed and admired, after all, Lecoq turned to his old companion: “What did the accused do along the road?” he asked, “he went into five clothing merchants, quite uselessly. In
desperation, he asked a bargain hunter who was passing by, carrying a load of old clothes over his shoulder, but they didn’t get along.” Lecoq nodded. “The moral of this, Father Absinthe,” he said, “is that there is a gulf between theory and practice. Here is a defendant whom the most experienced people took for a poor devil, for a miserable acrobat, so well did he speak of the misfortunes and hazards of his existence… He is outside, he is free, and this so-called gypsy does not know how to go about making money from the clothes on his back. The actor who created an illusion on the stage vanishes, the man remains… the man who has always been rich and who knows nothing about life!…” He did not continue, Mai had just risen. Lecoq was less than ten paces from him and could see him perfectly. The unfortunate man was livid, his attitude revealed the excess of his dejection; one could read the indecision in his eyes. Perhaps he was wondering if the wisest course would not be to voluntarily surrender himself into the hands of his jailers, since the resources he had counted on in escaping were failing him. But soon he shook off the torpor that had invaded him, his eyes sparkled, and after a gesture of threat and defiance, he descended the stairs of the Odéon, crossed the square, and entered the Rue de l’Ancienne-Comédie. He walked briskly now, like a man with a goal in mind. “Who knows where he’s going?” murmured Father Absinthe, still kicking his legs at Lecoq’s side. “Me!” replied the young policeman. And the proof is that I’m going to leave you and run to prepare a dish of my trade for him. I may be mistaken, however, and as one must foresee everything, you’ll leave me with arrows everywhere. ” If our man did not go to the Hôtel de Mariembourg, as I presume, I would come back here to pick up your trail. An empty cab arrived at a walking pace, he got in, ordering the driver to take him to the Gare du Nord, by the shortest route, and quickly. He saw himself having just enough time to prepare his scene. So he took advantage of the journey to pay the driver and search his wallet, among all the pieces that Mr. Segmuller had entrusted to him, the piece that he was going to need. The carriage had not yet stopped in front of the railway when Lecoq was on the ground. He ran straight to the hotel. As the first time, he found the blonde Mrs. Milner, climbed onto a chair in front of her starling’s cage, obstinately repeating her German phrase to him, to which the bird replied with equal obstinacy: Camille!… where is Camille? At the sight of the rascal who was entering her hotel, the pretty widow did not deign to move. “What do you want?” she asked in an unencouraging tone . Lecoq bowed as much as he could, trying to enhance his deplorable attire with his bearing. “I am, madame,” he replied, “the very nephew of a bailiff of the Palais de Justice.” Having gone to visit my uncle this morning, since I am without work, I found him crippled with rheumatism, and he asked me to bring you this paper in his place… It is a summons to report immediately to the examining magistrate. This reply had the virtue of persuading Mrs. Milner to abandon her chair. She took the paper and read… This was indeed what this singular messenger had announced to her. “That’s good,” she replied, “time to throw a shawl over my shoulders, and I obey…” Lecoq withdrew backward, his mouth set in a heart, still bowing… but he had not crossed the threshold when already a significant grimace betrayed his intimate satisfaction. He had just paid the blonde widow back in his own coin. She had duped him, he was playing her. The trick was set up. He crossed the road, and, noticing a house under construction at the corner of Rue de Saint-Quentin, he hid there, waiting… “Just time to put on a shawl and a hat, and I’ll be off! ” That was what Mrs. Milner had said to the young policeman. But she was over forty, a widow, blonde, and still very attractive, according to the police commissioner of her neighborhood… It took him more than ten minutes to casually tie the straps of his blue velvet hat. Lecoq, in the midst of his plaster casts, felt beads of sweat running down his spine at the thought that May might arrive at any moment. How much of a head start was he on him? Half an hour perhaps, and even then! And he had only accomplished half his task. Every shadow that appeared at the corner of Rue Saint-Quentin, on the side of Rue Lafayette, made him shudder. Finally the coquettish hotelier appeared, all spruce up on this beautiful spring day. She was doubtless anxious to make up for the time lost in her toilette, for she reached the end of the street almost running. As soon as she had disappeared, the young policeman leaped out of his hiding place and burst into the Hotel de Mariembourg. Fritz, the Bavarian boy, must have been warned that the house was to remain under his sole care for a few hours, and… he was guarding. He had comfortably and comfortably settled himself in his landlady’s own armchair, his legs stretched out on a chair, and was already almost asleep. “Get up!” Lecoq shouted to him, “get up!” At this voice, which had the brilliance of trumpets, Fritz jumped up, quite frightened. “You see,” the young policeman continued, showing him his card, “I am an agent of the Prefecture of Police… If you want to avoid all sorts of unpleasantness, the least of which would be a walk to the Depot, you must obey me. ” The vigilant boy was trembling all over. “I will obey,” he stammered… “But what must I do? ” “Not much. A man will appear here at any moment; you will recognize him by his black clothes and his long beard; you must answer him word for word what I am going to tell you. And remember that a mistake, even an involuntary one, would take you a long way. ” “Count on me, sir,” said Fritz, “I have an excellent memory…” The mere prospect of prison had terrified him; he spoke with the sincerity of his soul; anything could be obtained from him. Lecoq took advantage of these dispositions, and with the conciseness and clarity of which he had the secret, he explained to the waiter what he wanted. He expressed himself in a tone that would penetrate his will into the most rebellious mind, as surely as a hammer drives a nail into a board. When he had finished his explanations: “Now,” he added, “I want to see and hear!… Where can I go?” Fritz pointed to a glass door. “In the dark room here, officer,” he replied. “By leaving the door ajar, you will hear, and you will see everything through the pane.” Without a word, Lecoq threw himself into the study. The doorbell of the hotel announced the entrance of a visitor. It was Mai. “I would like to speak to the mistress of the hotel,” he said. “Which mistress? ” “The woman who received me when I stayed here six weeks ago … ” “I’m here,” Fritz interrupted. “It’s Mrs. Milner you would like to see . You’re too late; she no longer runs this house . She sold it last month, after making her fortune, and left for her native Alsace. ” The accused stamped his foot, uttering an oath that would have made a bogged carter shudder : “I do, however, have a complaint to make to her,” he insisted. “Do you want me to call his successor?” From his hole, the young policeman could not help but admire Fritz: he lied impudently with that air of perfect candor which gives the Germans such great superiority over the people of the south, who, even when they tell the truth, seem to be lying. “Hey!… the successor will send me packing,” cried Mai. “I came to claim a deposit I paid for a room I never used! ” “A deposit is never returned. ” The accused muttered confused threats, of which one could barely catch these words: obvious theft and again: justice, then he left , violently pulling the door behind him. “Well!… Did I answer correctly?” Fritz asked triumphantly to the young agent who was leaving his dark office. “Yes, perfectly,” replied Lecoq…. And with a nervous arm, making the waiter who was blocking his path spin, he rushed after Mai. A vague apprehension tightened his throat. It seemed to him that the accused had been neither surprised nor truly moved. He had come to the hotel counting on Mrs. Milner, the damned soul of his accomplice; the news of this woman’s departure should have terrified him. Had he guessed the ruse?… How?… Common sense demonstrated so well that the accused in this case must have been warned, that Lecoq’s first question, upon joining Father Absinthe on Rue Lafayette, was this: “Did Mai speak to anyone on the way? ” “Well!” replied the surprised fellow, “you know that. ” “Ah!… I was sure of it!… Who did he speak to? ” “A pretty woman, by Jove! Blonde and plump.” Lecoq had turned green with anger. “Thunder from heaven!” he cried, “chance is against us. I run ahead to Mrs. Milner’s, so that Mai won’t see her, I find an expedient to drive her out of her house, and they meet! ” Father Absinthe made a desperate gesture. “Ah!… if I had known!” he said, “but you didn’t tell me to stop Mai from talking to passers-by… ” “Console yourself, old man,” interrupted the young policeman, “there’s nothing to be done against misfortune… ” The so-called acrobat reached the Faubourg Montmartre; the two police officers had to stop, quicken their pace, and get closer to their man, so as not to lose him in the crowd. When they were a good distance away: “Now,” Lecoq continued, “some details. Where did our people meet ?… “Two steps from the Rue Saint-Quentin. ” “Which one saw the other and came forward first? ” “Mai.
” “What did the woman say? Did you hear a cry of surprise?” “I heard nothing because I was twenty-five paces away, but from the woman’s movement, I could clearly see that she was stupefied. Ah! If Lecoq had seen the scene with his own eyes, he could have drawn valuable inferences from it! “Did they talk for long?” he continued. “Half a quarter of an hour. ” “Do you know if Mrs. Milner gave Mai any money? ” “I can’t answer yes or no. They were gesticulating like madmen, so much so that I thought they were arguing. ” “Naturally.” They knew they were being watched and tried to dispel conjectures…. Father Absinthe stopped short, like a horse rearing up before an obstacle: an idea came to him. “Suppose we arrest this landlady,” he said, “if we question her?” “What’s the point!… Hasn’t Mr. Segmuller pressed her ten times, overwhelmed her with questions, without getting anything out of her? Ah! She’s a smart girl!… This time she would reply that Mai, having met her, had demanded her ten francs deposit. ” The young policeman made a gesture of resignation. “We must accept it,” he continued. “If the accomplice hasn’t been warned already, he won’t be long in being, and we must expect to have him on our hands soon. What trick these two prodigiously strong men will devise to escape us? That is what I cannot guess.” What I foresee, for example, is that they will not invent anything vulgar!… These presumptions of Lecoq made Father Absinthe shudder. “Good heavens!” he cried, “perhaps the safest thing would be to put that fellow back in jail. ” “Never!” replied the young policeman, “no, never!” I want his secret, I will have it. What would we be if we were not capable, between the two of us, of tailing a man! He will not disappear, I think, like the devil in fairy tales. We shall see what he will do, now that he has a plan and money, for he has both , the old one, I would bet my hand on it.” At that very moment, as if the accused were anxious to give credence to some of Lecoq’s suspicions, he entered a tobacconist’s and took out a cigar in his mouth. Chapter 37. The mistress of the Mariembourg hotel had given Mai money; the purchase of this cigar proved it peremptorily. But had they consulted? Had they had time to decide point by point and in detail the maneuvers to be attempted to thwart the pursuit?… In this regard, there were only probabilities, very strong, it is true, further strengthened by the conduct of the accused. For once again, his manner had just changed. As much as until then he had seemed to care little about being pursued and recaptured, at this hour he seemed worried and agitated. After having walked for so long with his head held high, in the full sun, he was seized with panic, and he darted along the houses, hiding himself, making himself as small as possible. “It is clear,” Lecoq was saying to Father Absinthe, “that our man’s fears increase in proportion to the hopes he is imagining.” He was completely discouraged under the Odéon, he would have given himself up if he had given himself up, now he believes he has a way out to escape us with his secret. The defendant thus followed the boulevards to the Passage Vendôme. He crossed it and reached the Temple. Soon Father Absinthe and his young colleague saw him stop at the voice of one of those stubborn merchants who consider all passersby in these parts as their prey and claim to undress or dress them… as they wish. The saleswoman was selling, and Mai was resisting weakly. He finally gave in and disappeared into the shop. “He insisted on it,” murmured Father Absinthe. “Now he’s found his clothes for sale… What’s the point!… since he has change?” The young policeman nodded with a concerned air. “He’s playing his part,” he replied, “and he’s especially keen to change his costume. Isn’t that the first concern of a prisoner who has managed to escape?” He fell silent. Mai reappeared transformed from head to toe. He was now dressed in trousers of coarse blue canvas and a sort of black wool jacket. A checked scarf was around his neck, and he wore a cap with a soft double bottom, which he wore over his ear, a little back, against his head. Really, he didn’t have, in his way, a more reassuring expression than Lecoq; to decide which one would have preferred to meet at the edge of a wood, one would have hesitated. He seemed happy with his transformation, as if he felt more at ease and freer in clothes to which he was accustomed. There was defiance in the look he cast around him, as if he were trying to distinguish among all the people he saw those who were charged with spying on him and surprising his secret. Moreover, he had not taken off his cloth suit; he carried it under his arm, tied in a handkerchief. He had bought and not bartered, spent and not increased his capital. He had abandoned only his high-shaped silk hat. Lecoq would have liked to enter the merchant’s to question; but he understood that it would be imprudent. Mai had just secured his cap on his head with a gesture that could leave no doubt as to his intentions. The next second, he was scampering down the Rue du Temple. The serious hunt was beginning, and soon the two bloodhounds needed all their experience and flair to track by sight a game that seemed endowed with the agility of a deer. Mai had probably lived in England and Germany, since he spoke the language of those countries as fluently as the natives, but he certainly knew his Paris as well as the oldest Parisian. This was demonstrated simply by the way he suddenly threw himself into the Rue des Gravilliers and by the sureness of his run in the middle of this maze of strangely cut little streets, which intertwined between the Rue du Temple and the Rue Beaubourg. Ah! he knew this district like the back of his hand, and as if he had lived there half his life. He knew the houses with two exits, the passages tolerated by certain courtyards, the long, winding, dark corridors opening onto several streets. Twice he almost missed the police. As Frépillon passed, his safety hung by a thread. If he had remained motionless for a minute longer in a dark corner where he had huddled behind some empty barrels, the two officers would have moved away. The pursuit presented horrible difficulties. Night had fallen, and at the same time there had risen that light fog which invariably follows the first fine days of spring. The gas from the street lamps burned red in the mist without casting a glimmer. And to cap it all, it was the hour when these laborious streets are most crowded; workers are leaving their workshops, housewives are running to get provisions for supper, in front of all the houses hundreds of tenants are buzzing like bees around their hive. May was taking advantage of everything to mislead the people who were determined to get him. Groups, traffic jams, roadworks, he used everything, with a marvelous presence of mind and a skill so rare that he glided like a shadow, through the crowd, without hitting anyone, without raising the slightest complaint in his path. He had finally entered the Rue des Gravilliers and reached the wide tracks. After being beaten in a narrow enclosure, he wanted to try space. He had fought with tricks, he was going to fight with speed and depth. Arriving at the Boulevard de Sébastopol, he turned left, towards the Seine, and took his run… He ran with a prestigious speed, elbows to the body, saving his breath, timing his step with the precision of a gymnastics teacher. Nothing stopped him, he didn’t turn his head, he ran… And it was with the same steady and furious pace that he went down the Boulevard de Sébastopol, crossed the Place du Châtelet and the bridges, and went up the Boulevard Saint-Michel. Near the Cluny Museum, cabs were parked. Mai stopped in front of the first line, said a few words to the coachman, and got in from the roadside. The cab immediately set off at full speed. But the defendant wasn’t in it. He had only crossed it, and while the coachman moved off on an imaginary fare paid for in advance, Mai slipped from the sidewalk this time into a carriage that left the station at a gallop. Perhaps, after so many tricks, after a formidable effort, after this last stratagem, perhaps Mai thought he was free… He was mistaken. Behind the cab that was carrying him, leaning on the springs to relax, a man was running… Lecoq. Poor Father Absinthe, for his part, had fallen halfway there, in front of the Palais-de-Justice, exhausted, out of breath. And the young policeman hardly expected to see him again, having had enough to do just keeping himself going, without drawing indicator arrows. Mai had ordered his coachman to take him to the Place d’Italie, and had especially recommended that he stop short in the middle of the square, a hundred paces from the post where he had been locked up with the Widow Chupin. When he arrived there, he rushed out of the cab, and with a quick and sure glance, he explored the surroundings, looking for any suspicious shadows. He saw nothing. Surprised by the sudden stop of the carriage, the young policeman had had time to throw himself flat on his stomach under the box, at the risk of being crushed by the wheels. Probably more and more reassured, Mai paid the fare and retraced his steps towards the Rue Mouffetard. With a leap, Lecoq was on his feet, more determined on his trail than a mastiff after a bone. He reached the shadow cast by the tall trees of the outer boulevards, when a muffled whistle sounded in his ear. “Father Absinthe!” he said, amazed and delighted. “Myself,” replied the old man, “and rested, what’s more, thanks to a fir tree that picked me up there. I was able to… ” “Oh! Enough!” interrupted Lecoq, “enough… let’s keep our eyes open.” Mai was then prowling, with obvious indecision, around the numerous cabarets in the neighborhood. He seemed to be looking for something. Finally, after pressing his face against the windows of three of these dives, he made up his mind and entered the fourth. The door had not closed when the two policemen were at the window, watching with all their eyes. They saw the accused cross the room and sit down at the very back, at a table where a man of powerful build, with a fiery complexion and grizzled whiskers was already seated . “The accomplice!” murmured Father Absinthe. Was this, then, finally the elusive accomplice of the incident?… To rely on a vague connection between two reports is so reckless and exposed to so many blunders that on any other occasion Lecoq would have hesitated to pronounce. But here, so many circumstances, such strong probabilities supported the opinion expressed by Father Absinthe, that the young policeman admitted it at first. Was this meeting not in the logic of events, the foreseen and announced result of the fortuitous meeting of the defendant and the blonde mistress of the Mariembourg hotel!… –Mai, thought Lecoq, began by taking all the money that Mrs. Milner had on her; he then instructed her to tell her accomplice to come and wait for her in some dive in this neighborhood. If he hesitated and searched, it was because he had not been able to pinpoint the exact cabaret. If they do not throw off the mask, it is because Mai is not quite sure that she has detected us, and on the other hand the accomplice fears that Mrs. Milner has been followed. The accomplice, if it was really him, had resorted to a disguise of the kind adopted by Mai and Lecoq. He wore an old, stained blouse, and had on his head a hideous soft felt hat, a rag of felt. He had gone too far. His unreassuring physiognomy was remarkable among all the shifty or fierce faces of the establishment. For it was a den they had chosen for their rendezvous. Not four decent workmen would have been found there. All the people who ate and drank there must have had run-ins with the law. The least formidable were perhaps the barrier prowlers, who formed the majority of the honorable company, all recognizable by their cravats and oilskin caps . And yet Mai, this man so strongly suspected of belonging to the highest social spheres, seemed at home there. He had been served a regular and a liter, and he devoured it literally, washing down his soup and beef with large gulps, wiping his lips with the back of his sleeve. Only, was he talking with his table neighbor? This was impossible to discern from outside through the windows obscured by the steam of the food and the smoke of the pipes. “I must go in!” Lecoq declared resolutely. “I’ll go and stand near them and listen. ” “Just think!” Father Absinthe said. “And what if they recognized you? ” “They won’t recognize me. ” “They’d give you a hard time!” The young policeman made a careless gesture. “I really believe,” he replied, “that they wouldn’t back down from a good stab that would get rid of me. What a great deal! A security agent who wouldn’t risk his skin would be nothing more than a snitch. Just see if Gevrol ever backed down.” The old sly fellow had perhaps wanted to know if his young companion’s courage equaled his perspicacity. He was edified. “You, old fellow,” added Lecoq, “don’t go far away, so you can tail them if they suddenly leave…” He had already turned the doorknob, pushed it open, and, going to sit down at a table very close to the one occupied by his two clients, he asked, in an odiously hoarse voice, for a pint and a portion. The accused and the man in the felt hat were talking, but like strangers brought together by chance, and not at all like friends who meet at a rendezvous. They were speaking slang… not the childish slang that peppers certain novels under the pretext of local color, but real slang, the kind that is current in the dens of criminals, a vile and obscene language that is impossible to translate, so fluid and diverse is the meaning of the words. –What marvelous actors!… thought the young policeman, what perfection, what science!… how I would let myself be taken in if I did not have absolute certainties!… The man in the felt hat held the dice, and he gave details about the prisons of France that one would look for in vain in special books. He spoke of the character of the directors of all the central prisons, how discipline is harsher here than there, how the food at Poissy is worth ten times that of Fontevrault… Lecoq, having hurried his meal, had asked for a half-septier of brandy, and, with his back to the wall, his eyes closed, he appeared dozing and listening. Mai had spoken in turn, and he narrated his story as he had told it to the judge, from the incident to his escape, without forgetting the suspicions of the police and the courts regarding his individuality, suspicions which had made him laugh, he said. However, he would have considered himself very lucky, he declared, if he had had enough to return to Germany. But he lacked money and he did not know how to get it. He had not even managed to part with the garment belonging to him, which he had there in a bundle. Thereupon, the man in the felt hat swore that he was too kind-hearted to leave a comrade in the lurch. He knew, in the very street, a good-natured merchant; he offered to take Mai there. In response, Mai straightened up and said: Let’s go!… And they set off, with Lecoq still at their heels. They walked briskly down to the opposite side of Rue du Fer-à-Moulin, and there they entered a narrow, dark alley. “Run, old fellow,” Lecoq immediately said to Father Absinthe, “run and ask the concierge if this house doesn’t have two exits. The house had only this entrance on Rue Mouffetard.” The officers waited. “We’ve been discovered!” murmured the young policeman, “I ‘ll bet on it. The accused must have recognized me or the waiter from the Hôtel de Mariembourg must have given my description to the accomplice!” Father Absinthe remained silent; the two companions emerged from the shadows of the corridor. Mai was tossing a few twenty-sou pieces in the palm of his hand, and he seemed in a foul mood. “What rogues!” he grumbled, “those fences.” Even if they had bought his clothes, the kindness of the man in the felt hat was worth a polite gesture. Mai offered him a glass of anything , and together they went into a liquor store. They stayed there for a good hour, playing rounds at the turnstile; and when they left, it was to go and settle a hundred paces further on at a wine merchant’s. Thrown out by this wine merchant who was closing his shop, the two good companions took refuge in a bar that was still open. They were chased out; they ran to another, then another… And so, from bottles to small glasses, they reached the Place Saint-Michel at about one o’clock in the morning. But there, for example, there was nothing left to drink. Everything was closed. The two men then consulted, and after a short discussion, they headed towards the Faubourg Saint-Germain, arm in arm like a pair of friends. The alcohol they had consumed in considerable quantity seemed to be having its effect. They staggered, they gesticulated, they spoke very loudly and both at once. At all risks, Lecoq went ahead of them to try to catch some snatches of their conversation, and the words “good deal to be made” and ” money to have a party” reached him. Decidedly, to persist in seeing two people in such appearances, it took the robust faith of that madman who cried out: ” I believe, because it is absurd.” Father Absinthe’s confidence was wavering. “All this,” he murmured, “will end badly! ” “So have no fear!” replied the young policeman. “I understand nothing, I confess, of the maneuvers of these two cunning accomplices; but what does it matter!… Now that our two birds are reunited, I am sure of success, sure, you understand. If one flies away, the other will remain with us, and Gévrol will see who was right, him or me!… However, the pace of the two drunkards had gradually slowed down. Seeing the air with which these magnificent residences of the Faubourg Saint-Germain were being examined, one could suppose the worst intentions in them. Rue de Varennes, finally, a stone’s throw from Rue de la Chaise, they stopped in front of the low wall of a vast garden. It was the man in the felt hat who was holding forth. He was explaining to Mai, as one could guess from his gestures, that the house, of which this garden was an outbuilding, had its facade on the Rue de Grenelle. “Oh, that!” grumbled Lecoq, “how far will they push the charade?” They pushed it to the point of climbing. Using his companion’s shoulders, Mai hoisted herself up to the coping of the wall, and the next moment the sound of her falling into the garden was heard…. The man in the felt hat, who had remained in the street, was keeping watch…. Chapter 38. The enigmatic defendant had taken such swift action in carrying out his strange, inconceivable plan that Lecoq had neither the time nor even the thought of opposing it. His understanding had been shaken by that terrible ring of the bell of foreboding that announces a great misfortune. For ten seconds he remained petrified, deprived of feeling as much as the boundary stone on the corner of Rue de la Chaise, behind which he had huddled to observe without being seen. But he quickly came to, already knowing how to mitigate his fault, with that quickness of decision which is the genius of men of action. With a sure eye, he measured the distance which separated him from Mai’s accomplice, he took his run, and in three bounds he was upon him. The man in the felt hat wanted to cry out… an iron hand stifled the cry in his throat. He tried to struggle… a blow from the knee to the back stretched him to the ground like a child. And before he had time to recognize himself, he was bound, garroted, gagged, carried off and carried, half-suffocated, to Rue de la Chaise. Not a word, moreover, not an exclamation, not a curse, not even a stamping of struggle, nothing. No suspicious noise could have reached Mai, on the other side of the wall, and alerted her. “What a story!” murmured Father Absinthe, too stunned to think of lending a helping hand to his young colleague, “what a story!” Who would have expected… “Oh!… enough!” interrupted Lecoq, in that hoarse, curt voice that the imminence of danger gives energetic men, “enough… we ‘ll talk tomorrow. For the moment, I must go away. You, Papa, will remain on guard in front of this garden. If Mai reappears, seize him and don’t let him go… And on your life, don’t let him escape… ” “I hear; but what are we to do with this one who is lying there?” “Let’s leave him where he is for the time being.” I tied it up carefully, so there’s nothing to fear… When the policemen from the neighborhood come by, you’ll give it to them… He stopped, listening. Not far from there, on the side of the Rue de Grenelle, heavy, rhythmic footsteps could be heard approaching on the pavement. “Here they are!” said Father Absinthe. “Ah! I dare not hope so! It would be a great stroke of luck if I had…” He had it… two policemen were running up, very intrigued by this confused group they could see at the corner of the street. In a few words, Lecoq explained the situation to them—as was necessary. It was decided that one of them would take the man in the felt hat to the police station and that the other would stay with Father Absinthe to watch for the accused. “And now,” declared the young policeman, “I’m running to the Rue de Grenelle to raise the alarm… Which house does this garden belong to?” “What!” replied one of the policemen, quite surprised. “You do n’t know the gardens of the Duke of Sairmeuse, that famous duke who is a millionaire ten times over, and was once a friend… ” “I know, I know!” said Lecoq. “Even so,” continued the sergeant, “the thief who got in there didn’t have a good nose. There was a reception at the hotel this evening, like every Monday, and everyone is still standing. ” “Not to mention,” added the other policeman, “that the guests haven’t even left. There were still at least five or six cars at the door just now.” Armed with this information, the young policeman set off like a bolt from the blue, more disturbed after what he had just learned than he had been until then. He understood that if Mai had entered this hotel, it was not with the aim of committing a robbery, but driven by the hope of throwing the bloodhounds who were desperately after him off his trail. Now, was there not reason to fear, even to bet, that thanks to the hubbub of a party, he would succeed in reaching the Rue de Grenelle and flee? He was saying this to himself as he arrived at the Hôtel de Sairmeuse, a princely residence whose immense facade was all lit up. The carriage of the last guest had just left the courtyard, the footmen were bringing ladders to put out the fire, and the Swiss, a superb man with a purple face, superlatively proud of his dazzling livery, was closing the two heavy leaves of the large door. The young policeman advanced towards this important personage. “Is this the Hôtel de Sairmeuse?” he asked. The Swiss man stopped his movements to look down at this audacious rascal who was questioning him; then in a harsh voice: “I advise you, my friend, to move on. I don’t like bad jokers, and I have a supply of broomsticks here…” Lecoq had forgotten his costume at the Polyte Chupin. “Hey!” he cried, “I am not what I appear to be, I am an agent of the security service, Monsieur Lecoq, here is my card if you don’t take my word for it, and I have come to tell you that a criminal has climbed the garden wall of the Hôtel de Sairmeuse. ” “A criminal?” The young policeman thought that a little exaggeration could not hurt, and even assured him of more effective assistance. “Yes,” he replied, “and a most dangerous one… a murderer who already has the blood of three incidents on his hands. We have just arrested his accomplice who gave him a leg up. ” The rubies in the Swiss man’s nose visibly paled. “We must call the servants,” he stammered. Matching his words to his deed, he reached for the bell rope he used to ring the visitors, but Lecoq stopped him. “A word first!” he said. “Couldn’t the criminal have simply crossed the hotel and slipped out through that door without being seen? He would be far away in that case. ” “Impossible! ” “However… ” “Excuse me! I know what I’m saying. First, the vestibule that opens onto the gardens is closed; it is opened for grand receptions, but not for the intimate Monday soirées.” Secondly, Monseigneur requires, when he receives, that I stand on the threshold of the door… Today again, he renewed his orders in this regard, and you can imagine that I have not disobeyed. “If that is the case,” said the young policeman, somewhat reassured, “we may find our man. Warn the servants, but without ringing your bell. The less noise we make, the more chances we will have of success.” In an instant, the fifty servants who populated the antechambers, stables, and kitchens of the Hôtel de Sairmeuse were on their feet. The large lanterns in the sheds and stables were taken down, and the garden was illuminated as if by magic. “If May is hidden there,” thought Lecoq, happy to see so many assistants, “it is impossible for him to escape.” But it was in vain that the gardens were beaten, turned over, searched down to their smallest corners… no one was found. The gardening tool sheds, the greenhouses, the summer aviaries, the two rustic pavilions at the back, the dog kennels, everything was scrupulously searched… in vain. The trees, with the exception of the chestnut trees at the back, were not very leafy, but they were not neglected for that reason. A nimble kitchen boy climbed them armed with a lantern, and shone light even to the highest branches. “The murderer will have left by the same way he came in,” he stubbornly repeated. the Swiss, who had armed himself with a heavy flintlock pistol, and who did not let go of Lecoq, fearing an accident, no doubt… To convince him of his error, the young policeman had to communicate, from one side of the wall to the other, with Father Absinthe and the two police sergeants, because the one who had led the man in the felt hat to the station was back. They replied by swearing that they had not lost sight of the wall’s hood; that they were, damn it! not seeing things, and that not a fly had landed there. Until then, they had proceeded somewhat at random, each running according to their inspiration, and the need for methodical investigations was recognized . Lecoq took measures so that not a corner, not a dark place escaped exploration; he was sharing the task among his volunteers, when a newcomer appeared in the circle of light. He was a grave, clean-shaven gentleman, dressed like a notary for a contract signing. “Monsieur Otto,” the Swiss man murmured in the ear of the young policeman, ” Monsieur’s first valet.” This important man had come on behalf of Monsieur the Duke—he did n’t say Monseigneur—to know what this commotion meant. When he had been told what it was, Monsieur Otto deigned to congratulate Lecoq, and even recommended that he search the hotel from cellar to attic… This precaution alone would reassure Madame la Duchesse. He left, and the search began again with an ardor inflamed by a certain promise from Monsieur the sommelier…. A mouse hidden in the gardens of the Hôtel de Sairmeuse would have been discovered, so meticulous were the investigations. Not a single object of any considerable size was left in place. All the shrubs in the clumps were examined, so to speak, leaf by leaf. At times, the harassed and discouraged servants suggested abandoning the hunt, but Lecoq brought them back. He had irresistible accents to inflame with the passion that inflamed him all these indifferent people who, in short, cared infinitely little whether Mai was recaptured or escaped. He was truly beside himself, and there was almost madness in the feverish activity he displayed. He ran from one to the other, begging or threatening in turn, swearing that he asked for only one more effort, the last, which would most certainly be crowned with success. Chimerical promises!… The accused remained untraceable. From now on, the evidence was clear. To persist any longer would have been nothing more than childish. The young policeman decided to recall his auxiliaries. “That’s enough!” he told them in a desperate voice. “It has now been shown that the incident is no longer in the garden. Was he then huddled in some corner of the immense mansion, pale with fear, trembling at the noise of all this great movement of people who were looking for him? One could reasonably hope so, and that was quite the opinion of the servants. It was especially the opinion of the Swiss man, who renewed with increasing assurance his affirmations of a moment ago. “I have not left,” he swore, “the threshold of my door; it is impossible that anyone could have gone out without my having noticed them. ” “Let us visit the house then,” said Lecoq. “But first, let me tell my colleague, who is in the Rue de Varennes, to come and join me; his duty on the other side of the wall is now without purpose.” When Father Absinthe arrived, all the doors on the ground floor were closed; All exits were secured and the investigations began through the Hôtel de Sairmeuse, one of the largest and most magnificent in the Faubourg Saint-Germain. But all the wonders of the universe would not have obtained from Lecoq either a glance or a second of attention. All his intelligence, all his thoughts were with the accused. And it was certainly without seeing anything that he crossed the salons admirable, a picture gallery without rival in Paris, the dining room with sideboards laden with precious flatware. He went about with a sort of rage, hurrying the people who guided and lit him. He lifted the heaviest pieces of furniture like a feather , he moved armchairs and chairs, he probed cupboards and wardrobes, he questioned the draperies, the curtains and the portieres. Never was a search more thorough. From the courtyard to the attic, not a single corner was overlooked. And even, having reached the attic, the young policeman hoisted himself through a skylight onto the roofs, which he examined. Finally, after two hours of prodigious work, Lecoq was brought back to the first-floor landing. Only five or six servants had followed him. The others, one by one, had slipped away, bored at the end of this adventure which had had for them, at the beginning, the attraction of a pleasure party. “You’ve seen everything, gentlemen officers,” declared an old footman . “Everything!” interrupted the Swiss, “certainly not! There are still Monseigneur’s apartments and those of Madame la Duchesse to be seen. ” “Alas!” murmured the young policeman, “what’s the use!” But the Swiss had already gone to knock gently at one of the doors leading to the landing. His determination equaled that of the security agents, if not surpassed it. They had seen the intruder enter, he hadn’t seen him leave; therefore he was in the hotel, and he wanted to be found, he wanted it stubbornly. The door, however, opened ajar, and the grave, clean-shaven face of Otto, the head footman, appeared. “What the devil do you want?” he asked in a snarling tone. “To enter Monseigneur’s,” replied the Swiss, “in order to assure ourselves that the criminal has not taken refuge there.” “Are you mentally ill?” declared the first valet. “When would he have entered, and how? Besides, I cannot bear to disturb the Duke. He has been working all night, and has just gone to the bath to relax before going to bed. ” The Swiss man seemed very upset by the disturbance, and Lecoq was preparing an apology when a voice was heard saying: “Leave it, Otto, let these good people do their job. ” “Ah!… Do you hear!” said the Swiss man triumphantly. ” Very well!… The Duke permits… that being so, come along, I will enlighten you. ” Lecoq entered, but it was only for the sake of form that he went through the various rooms, the library, an admirable study, a delightful smoking room. As he crossed the bedroom, he had the honor of catching a glimpse of the Duke of Sairmeuse through the half-open door of a small white marble bathroom. “Well!” cried the Duke gaily, “is the criminal always invisible?” “Always, my lord!” replied the young policeman respectfully . The valet did not share his master’s good humor. “I think, gentlemen,” he said, “that you can spare yourselves the trouble of visiting the Duchess’s apartment. It is a task we have taken upon ourselves, the women and I, and we have even looked in the drawers…” On the landing, the old footman, who had not allowed himself to enter, was waiting for the security agents. He had doubtless received orders, for he politely asked them if they needed anything, and if it would not be agreeable, after a night of fatigue, to accept a slice of cold meat and a glass of wine. Father Absinthe’s eyes sparkled. He thought, probably, that in this almost royal residence one must eat and drink exquisite things , such as he had not tasted in his life. But Lecoq brusquely refused, and he left the Hôtel de Sairmeuse, dragging his old companion along with him. The poor fellow was eager to be alone. For several hours, he had needed all the power of his will not to to show nothing of his rage and despair. Mai disappeared, vanished, evaporated!… at this idea he felt himself becoming mentally ill. What he had declared impossible had happened. He had, in the confidence of his pride, answered for the life of the accused, and this accused had escaped, he had slipped through his fingers!… Once in the street, he stopped in front of Father Absinthe, crossing his arms, and in a curt voice: “Well!… old man,” he asked, “what do you think of that?” The good man shook his head, and without certainly being aware of his clumsiness: “I think,” he replied, “that Gevrol will rub his hands nicely.” At this name, which was that of his cruelest enemy, Lecoq leaped like the wounded bull. “Oh!” he cried, “Gevrol has not yet won the game. We have lost Mai, it is a misfortune; only his accomplice remains; we have this elusive character, who has thwarted all our schemes. He is certainly skillful and devoted, but we shall see if his devotion withstands the prospect of forced labor. And there is no denying it, that is what awaits him if he remains silent and thus accepts complicity in the escalation of this night. Oh! I have no fear, Mr. Segmuller will know how to wring the answer to the riddle from him. He brandished his closed fist, with a threatening air; then, in a calmer tone, he added: “But let us go to the station where he was taken, I want to question him.” Chapter 39. It was broad daylight then, nearly six o’clock, and when the young policeman and Father Absinthe arrived at the station, they found the man in command sitting at a small table, writing his report. He didn’t bother when they entered, unable to recognize them in their disguise. But when they had named themselves, the postmaster stood up with visible eagerness and held out his hand. “By my faith!…” he said, “I congratulate you on your fine capture this night.” Father Absinthe and Lecoq exchanged a worried look. “What capture?” they made together. “That individual you sent me last night, so well tied up. ” “Well?” The postmaster burst out laughing. “Come now,” he said, “you don’t know how lucky you were. Ah! Luck has served you well, and you will have a nice reward… ” “Finally, who did we capture?” asked Father Absinthe impatiently. “A scoundrel of the worst kind, a convict who has been wanted in vain for three months, and whose description you certainly have in your pocket, Joseph Couturier, at last!” At the last words of the police chief, Lecoq became so terribly pale that Father Absinthe stretched out his arms, thinking he was going to fall. A chair was quickly brought forward for him, and he sat down. “Joseph Couturier!” he stammered, apparently without being aware of what he was saying; “Joseph Couturier!… a convict who has been breaking his rules!” The police chief certainly understood nothing of the young policeman’s dreadful turmoil, nor of Father Absinthe’s crestfallen expression. “Blimey!” he observed, “the success makes a proud impression on you!… It’s true that the catch is famous.” I can just see Gevrol’s nose, who only yesterday claimed to be the only one capable of reaching this dangerous scoundrel. Thus, until the end, events mocked the young policeman with pleasure. How ironic these compliments were, after a failure that was undoubtedly irreparable! They struck him like so many lashes of a whip, and so cruelly, that he stood up, regaining all his energy. “You must be mistaken,” he said abruptly to the station chief, “this man is not Couturier. ” “I am not mistaken, rest assured. His description matches exactly that of the circular ordering a search for him. He is indeed missing, as specified, the little finger of his left hand…” “Ah!… that’s proof,” moaned Father Absinthe. ” Isn’t it?… Well! I know a more conclusive one. Couturier is an old acquaintance of mine. I once had him in boarding school for a whole night, and he recognized me as I recognized him. To that, no objection possible.” So it was in a completely different tone that Lecoq continued: “At least, comrade, you will allow me to ask our prisoner a few questions? ” “Oh!… as many as you like. After we have barricaded the door and placed two of my men in front of it. This Couturier is a strapping fellow who adores the great outdoors and who would very happily burn our politeness…” These precautions taken, the man in the felt hat was taken from the violin in which he was locked up. He advanced, smiling, having already recovered that carefree attitude of old convicts who, once arrested, hold no grudge against the police, like gamblers who, having lost, extend their hand to their opponent. At first glance, he recognized Lecoq. “Ah!… it was you,” he said, “who served me… You can boast of having a proud hamstring and a solid grip. You fell on my back as if from the sky, and my neck still hurts from your caresses… ” “Then,” said the young policeman, “if I asked you for a favor, you wouldn’t do it for me? ” “Oh!… all the same. I have no more gall than a chicken, and your face is returning to me. What is it about?… ” “I would like some information about your accomplice of last night? ” The man in the felt hat’s face darkened at this question. “I certainly won’t be the one to give it,” he replied. “Why?” “Because I don’t know him; I’d never seen him so much as last night. ” “It’s hard to believe. For an expedition like last night’s, you don’t trust just anyone. Before working with a man, you do your research… ” “Hey!” interrupted Couturier, “I’m not saying I didn’t do something stupid. I’m kicking myself enough for it, you know!… You won’t get the idea out of my head, you see, that this rabbit is a security agent. He set a trap for me, I fell for it… It serves me right; I shouldn’t have gone there!… ” “You’re mistaken, my boy,” said Lecoq. “This individual doesn’t belong to the police, I give you my word of honor.” For a good while, Couturier examined the young policeman with a sagacious air , as if he hoped to recognize whether he was telling the truth or not. “I believe you,” he said at last, “and the proof is that I’m going to tell you how things happened. I was dining alone last night at a caterer’s, right at the top of the Rue Mouffetard, when this fellow came and sat down at my table. Naturally, we started talking , and he struck me as a comrade. About something or other, he told me he had some clothes to sell, and he didn’t know how to get rid of them. I, a good fellow, took him to a friend’s house who bought them for him…. It was a favor, wasn’t it?” As expected, he offers me something, I respond with a round, he offers small glasses, I pay for a liter… so much so that from one politeness to another, at midnight I was seeing double…. It was at this moment that he chose to tell me about a matter he knows about, and which, he swears, will enrich us both at once. It involves removing all the silverware from a colossally rich house. Nothing to risk for you, he told me, I’ll take care of everything, you ‘ll only have to help me climb a garden wall and keep watch; I’ll guarantee to bring in three trips more silver cutlery and platters than we can carry. Lady!… it was tempting, wasn’t it? You would have given it a thumbs up straight away in my place. Well!… me, no, I hesitated. As drunk as I was, I I was suspicious. But the other insists, he swears to me that he knows the habits of the house, that every Monday there is a grand gala, and that on those days, as they stay up late, the servants leave everything lying around… Well, by Jove! I am… A fleeting blush colored Lecoq’s pale cheeks. “Are you sure,” he asked quickly, “are you certain that this individual told you that the Duke of Sairmeuse receives every Monday?” “By Jove!… how could I have guessed!… He had even pronounced the name you just mentioned, a name in euse….” A bizarre, unheard-of, absolutely inadmissible idea had just crossed the young policeman’s mind. “If it were him, however!…” he said to himself. What if Mai and the Duke of Sairmeuse were one and the same person? But he rejected this idea, and even scolded himself for having had it. He cursed this disposition of his imagination which pushed him to see romantic and improbable aspects in all events. What was the point of seeking chimerical solutions when the circumstances were so simple? What was surprising in the fact that a defendant whom he supposed to be a man of the world, knew the day chosen by the Duke of Sairmeuse to receive his friends? However, he had nothing more to expect from Couturier; he thanked him, and after a handshake with the station chief, he left leaning on Father Absinthe’s arm. For he needed support. He felt his legs softer than cotton, his head was spinning, he was dizzy. He could not understand how, by what magic, by what spells, he had lost this game, whose hazards he had accepted with such confidence. And he had lost it miserably, shamefully, without a fight, without resistance, in a ridiculous way… yes, ridiculous. To have believed himself the genius of his state and to be thus played underfoot!… To get rid of him, Lecoq, Mai had only had to throw him a false accomplice, picked up at random in a cabaret, like a hunter who, pressed too closely by a bear, throws his glove at it… And no more and no less than the beast, he had allowed himself to be taken in by the crude stratagem!… Meanwhile, Father Absinthe was worried by the gloomy sadness of his colleague. “Where are we going,” he asked, “to the Palace or to the Prefecture?” Lecoq started at this question, which brought him brutally back to the desolate reality of the situation. “To the Prefecture!” he replied; Why do it?… to expose myself to Gevrol’s insults? It’s a courage I don’t feel. I don’t feel the strength, either, to go and say to M. Segmuller: Pardon, you judged me too favorably; I’m only a fool!… –What are we going to do then?… –Ah!… I don’t know… perhaps embark for America, perhaps throw myself into the water!… He took a hundred paces, then suddenly stopping: –No!… he cried, stamping his foot furiously, no, this matter will not end there. I swore that I would have the answer to the riddle, I will have it. How, by what means?… I don’t know. But I need it, it is due to me, I want it… I will have it!… For a minute he reflected, then in a calmer voice: –There is, he continued, a man who can save us, a man who will know how to see what I have not seen, who will understand what I have not understood… Let us go and ask his advice! His answer will dictate my conduct… Come!… Chapter 40. After a day and a night like those they had just gone through, the two men from the Prefecture must have had, it seems, an irresistible need for sleep. But in Lecoq, the exasperation of self-esteem, the still raw pain, the unabandoned hope of revenge, sustained the machine. As for Father Absinthe, he was a little like those poor cab horses who, having forgotten rest, no longer know what is fatigue, and trot until they collapsed exhausted. He declared that his knees were digging into his body; but Lecoq told him: It must be done, and he walked. They reached Lecoq’s little lodging, where they got rid of their disguises, and after a passable lunch washed down with a good bottle of Burgundy, they set off again. The young policeman did not open his mouth. A single idea buzzed in his brain, teasing, importunate, irritating as much as the fly that circles the lamp. And he would not have communicated it for three months of his salary, so ridiculous did it seem to him…. It was rue Saint-Lazare, a stone’s throw from the station, that the two police officers were going. They entered one of the finest houses in the neighborhood and asked the concierge: “Mr. Tabaret?” “The owner?” Ah! He’s ill…. “Seriously?” said Lecoq, already worried. “Uh!… we don’t know,” replied the porter; “it’s his gout that’s bothering him.” And with an air of hypocritical commiseration, he added: “Monsieur isn’t reasonable, leading the life he’s leading… Women are all right for a while, but at his age!” The two policemen exchanged a strange look, and as soon as their backs were turned, they began to laugh… They were still laughing as they rang the doorbell of the apartment on the first floor. The stout, strong girl who opened the door told them that her master was receiving visitors, although he was confined to his bed. “Only,” she added, “his doctor is with him. Do these gentlemen want to wait until he has left?” The gentlemen replied in the affirmative, and the housekeeper showed them into a beautiful library, inviting them to sit down. This man, this owner, whom Lecoq came to consult, was famous at the Prefecture for his prodigious finesse and his penetration pushed to the limits of the improbable. He was a former employee of the Mont-de-Piété, who until the age of forty-five had lived more than frugally on his salaries. Suddenly enriched by an inheritance, he had hastened to hand in his resignation , and the next day, as was only right, he had begun to miss this office he had so cursed. He tried to distract himself; he improvised as a collector of old books; he piled up mountains of tomes in immense oak cupboards… Illusory attempts!… The yawn persisted. He was visibly losing weight and turning yellow, he was wasting away near his forty thousand pounds of income, when the flash of the road to Damascus shone for him. It was one evening, after reading the memoirs of a famous police inspector, one of those men with subtle flair, more delicate than silk , as supple as steel, whom justice sends on the trail of crime. A sudden revelation lit up his brain. “And me too!” he had to exclaim, “and I too am a policeman! He was, he had to prove it.” It was with feverish interest that from that day on he sought out all documents relating to the police. Letters, memoirs, reports, pamphlets, collections of judicial journals, everything was good for him, he read everything. He was educating himself. Was a crime committed? Quickly, he set out on the campaign, he informed himself, he sought out the details, and in turn pursued a little investigation, happy or unhappy according to whether the judgment gave reason or wrong to his predictions. But these platonic investigations were not to suffice for him for long. An irresistible vocation drove him towards that mysterious power whose head is over there, towards the Quai des Orfèvres, and whose invisible eye is everywhere. The desire gripped him to become one of the cogs in a machine that his particular optics showed him to be admirable. He trembled with pleasure and vanity at the thought that he could be just like another one of the collaborators of this small- time Providence, charged with confounding crime and making virtue triumph. A hundred times he resolved to solicit a small job, a hundred times he was held back by human respect, by what he called in a rage a stupid prejudice. “What would people say,” he thought, “if they came to know that I, a bourgeois of Paris, landowner and sergeant of the civic guard… am one of them. But there are destinies that one cannot avoid. One evening, at dusk, taking his courage in both hands, he went stealthily to humbly ask for work in the rue de Jérusalem. He was received rather badly at first. Lady!… the solicitors are numerous. But he insisted so skillfully that he was entrusted with several small commissions. He did well. The most difficult part was done. A success where others had failed, placed him. He grew bolder and was able to display his surprising bloodhound skills. The case of Mrs. B—-, the banker’s wife, crowned his reputation. Consulted at a time when the police were on edge, he proved by A plus B, by mathematical deduction, so to speak, that the dear lady must have stolen from herself. They searched in this direction… he had spoken the truth. After that, and for several years, he was called upon to give his opinion on all obscure matters. It cannot be said, however, that he was employed at the Prefecture. Where there is employment, there is salary, and this strange policeman never consented to receive a penny. What he did was for his pleasure, for the satisfaction of a passion that had become his life, for glory, for honor…. He hunted villains in Paris, like others hunt wild boar in the woods, and he found that it was much more useful, and above all much more moving. Even when the allocated funds seemed insufficient, he bravely used his own pocket, and the agents who worked with him never left without taking with them tokens of his munificence. Such a character must have made him enemies. For nothing, he worked as much and better than two inspectors. They weren’t wrong to call him a spoilsport. His name alone still gives Gévrol convulsions. And yet, the jealous inspector skillfully exploited a mistake made by this precious volunteer. Stubborn like all passionate people, Father Tabaret once almost had the neck of an innocent man cut, a poor little tailor accused of having killed his wife. This misfortune cooled the good man, and the disgust heaped on him drove him away. He rarely appeared at the Prefecture again. But despite everything, he remained the oracle, like those great lawyers who, disgusted with the bar, still triumph in their chambers, and lend others weapons that it is no longer appropriate for them to wield. When, on the rue de Jérusalem, people no longer knew which saint to turn to, they would say: Let’s go consult Tirau-clair!… For this was a battle name, a nickname borrowed from a phrase: This must be clarified, which he always had on his lips. Perhaps this nickname helped him to conceal the secret of his police occupations. None of his friends ever suspected him. His troubled existence, when he followed an investigation, the strange visits he received, his constant preoccupations, he had managed to put all this down to unseasonable gallantry. His concierge was fooled, as were his friends and neighbors. People chatted about his supposed excesses, laughed at his nights spent outside, called him old roquentin, old chaser of guilledou…. But it never occurred to anyone that Tirau-clair and Tabaret were one and the same. Lecoq was going over this whole story of this eccentric fellow in his head to give himself hope and courage, when the housekeeper reappeared, announcing the doctor’s departure. She opened a door at the same time, and said: –Here is the gentleman’s room, gentlemen may enter. Chapter 41. In a large four-poster bed, sweating and groaning under his covers, lay the two-faced oracle, Tirauclair on the rue de Jérusalem, Tabaret on the rue Saint-Lazare. One could understand how no suspicion of his police work had ever crossed the minds of his nearest neighbors by looking at him. It was impossible to grant, not superior perspicacity, but only average intelligence to the bearer of this physiognomy, in which stupidity vied with perpetual astonishment. With his receding forehead and immense ears, his odiously upturned nose, his small eyes and his large lips, M. Tabaret embodied, to the chagrin of a caricaturist, the conventional type of the idiotic little rentier. It is true that upon observing him closely one must have been struck by his resemblance to the hunting dog, whose aptitudes and instincts he shared. When he passed in the street, the impudent children had to turn around and shout: Oh! that ball!… He laughed at the mistake, the clever fellow, and he even took pleasure in thickening his appearance of silliness, exaggerating the idea that he is not really clever who appears to be. At the sight of the two policemen, whom he knew well, Father Tabaret’s eye sparkled. “Good morning Lecoq, my boy,” he said, “good morning my old Absinthe. Are people still thinking about that poor old Papa Tirauclair, over there, that you are at my house? ” “We need your advice, Mr. Tabaret. ” “Ah! ah!…” “We have just let ourselves be taken for a ride like two children by a defendant. ” “Blimey!… So he is strong, that fellow?” Lecoq sighed . “So much so,” he replied, “that if I were superstitious, I would say it was the devil himself… ” The old man’s face took on a comical expression of envy. “What!… you’ve found a clever defendant,” he said, “and you’re complaining! It’s a great stroke of luck, though. You see, my children, everything is degenerating and shrinking in our time. The great scoundrels are no more, and all we have left is their currency, a bunch of petty crooks and common rogues who aren’t worth the boots we wear out chasing them. It’s disgusting to be a police officer, on my honor!… No more pain, no more emotion, no more anxiety, no more intense pleasure: no more of those beautiful games of hide-and-seek as used to be played in the past between criminals and police officers. Now, when a crime is committed, the next day the criminal is locked up.” They take the bus to go and arrest him at home… and they find him; it’s pitiful… But what is your accused accused of? “He killed three men!” replied Father Absinthe. “Oh!…” said M. Tabaret in three different tones, “oh! oh!… ” This incident somewhat reconciled him with his contemporaries. “And where?” he asked. “In a cabaret, near Ivry. ” “Good!… I’m there, at the widow Chupin’s… a man named Mai… I saw it in the Gazette des Tribunaux, and Fanferlot-l’Ecureuil, who came to see me, told me that you were all, over there, in strange perplexities about the identity of this guy… So it was you, my son, who was in charge of the investigations?… Come on, so much the better! You will tell me everything, and I will help you in whatever way I can.” He broke off abruptly; and lowering his voice: –But first, he said to Lecoq, do me the favor of getting up… wait, when I give you a sign… and suddenly opening that door, there, on the left. Manette, my housekeeper, who is curiosity itself, is behind listening to us. I hear the rustling of her hair along the lock… Go on!… The young policeman obeyed, and Manette, caught red-handed in the act of domestic espionage, ran off, pursued by the sarcasm of her master.
“You should know, however, that it never works out for you,” he shouted. Although placed closer to the door than Papa Tirauclair, neither Lecoq nor Father Absinthe had heard anything, and they looked at each other, surprised to the point of wondering if the good man was playing a conventional little comedy, or if his hearing really had the marvelous sensitivity that this incident betrayed. “Now,” Father Tabaret continued, seeking a favorable position on his bed, “I’m listening to you, Lecoq, my boy… Manette won’t come back to it.” The young policeman had had time on the way to prepare his story, and it was in the clearest possible manner that he recounted in detail, and with details that could not be written, all the incidents of this strange affair, the twists and turns of the investigation, the emotions of the pursuit, from the moment when Gévrol had broken down the door of the Poivrière, to the moment when Mai had crossed the wall of the gardens of the Hôtel de Sairmeuse. While Lecoq spoke, Father Tabaret was transformed. He certainly no longer felt the pains of his gout. According to the phases of the story, he writhed on his bed, uttering little cries of jubilation, or he remained motionless, plunged in a sort of ecstatic beatitude like a fanatic of chamber music , listening to some divine quartet of Beethoven. –Would I were there! he sometimes muttered between his teeth, why were I not there! When the young policeman had finished, he let his transports burst forth. “That is beautiful!” he cried. And with a word: “It’s the Prussians who are coming!” as a starting point, Lecoq, my boy, I must tell you, and I know, you behaved like an angel. “Wouldn’t you mean like a fool?” asked the defiant policeman. “No, my friend, certainly not, God is my witness. You have just gladdened my old heart; I can die, I will have a successor. I would like to embrace you, in the name of logic. Ah! This Gevrol who betrayed you,—for he betrayed you, have no doubt about it, and I will give you the means to convict him of perfidy,—this obtuse and stubborn General is not worthy of brushing your hat…— You fill me with joy, Monsieur Tabaret!… interrupted Lecoq, who was not quite sure that he was not being laughed at; but with all that, Mai has disappeared, and I am lost in reputation before I could begin my reputation. The good man grimaced like a monkey peeling a nut. —Oh! wait, he continued, before rejecting my praise. I say that you have handled this affair well, but it could have been handled better, infinitely better!… That is understandable. You are gifted, that is incontestable; you have flair, a keen eye, you know how to deduce from the known to the unknown… only you lack experience, you get excited or discouraged over nothing, you lack consistency, you persist in circling around a fixed idea like a moth around a candle… After all, you are young. Don’t worry, it’s a fault that will pass of its own accord and all too soon. To tell the truth, you have made mistakes. Lecoq lowered his head like a pupil receiving a lesson from his teacher. Wasn’t he the schoolboy, and wasn’t this old man the master? “All your mistakes,” the old man continued, “I will enumerate them for you, and I will demonstrate to you that at least three times you have let slip the opportunity to clarify this matter, so murky in appearance, so clear in reality. ” “However, sir… ” “Hush, hush, my son! Let me tell you. What principle did you start from at the beginning?” From this one: To distrust appearances above all, to believe precisely the opposite of what will appear true or even likely. –Yes, that is what I said to myself. –And it was well said. With this idea in your lantern, to light your path, you had to go straight to the truth. But you are young, I tell you I have already said it, and at the first very probable circumstance that arose, you have completely forgotten your rule of conduct. You were presented with a fact that was more than probable, and you swallowed it like a gudgeon swallows a fisherman’s bait. The comparison did not fail to sting the young policeman. “I was not, it seems to me, so simple as that,” he protested. “Bah!… what did you think when you were told that M. d’Escorval, the investigating judge, had broken his leg getting out of the carriage? ” “Lady?… I believed what I was told, I frankly admit it, because …” He was searching; Father Tirauclair burst out laughing. “You believed it,” he finished, “because it was extraordinarily likely. ” “What would you have imagined in my place?… ” “The opposite of what I was told.” I might have been mistaken, but in any case I would have remained within the logic of my deduction. The conclusion was so bold that it disconcerted Lecoq. “What!…” he cried, “do you suppose that M. d’Escorval’s fall is only a fiction? That he didn’t break his leg?” The old man’s face suddenly became grave. “I don’t suppose so,” he replied; “I’m sure of it.” Chapter 42. Certainly, Lecoq’s confidence in this police oracle he had come to consult was great, but after all, Father Tirauclair could be mistaken, he had been mistaken several times already: all oracles are mistaken, that’s well known. What he was saying seemed so outrageous and so far removed from the circle of admissible things that the young policeman could not conceal a gesture of incredulity. “So, Monsieur Tabaret,” he said, “you are ready to swear that Monsieur d’Escorval is as well as Father Absinthe and myself, and that if he has been staying in his room for two months, it is solely to support a first lie. ” “I would swear it. ” “It would be rash, I think. But for what purpose, this charade?” The good man raised his arms to the sky, as if he were asking him to forgive the young policeman’s ineptitude. “What, it’s you!” he said. “You in whom I saw a successor and a continuer of my method of induction; what, it’s you who asks me this ludicrous question! Come now, think a little! Do you need an example to aid your intelligence? So be it. Assume yourself a judge, for a moment. A crime has been committed ; You are entrusted with the investigation, and you go to the accused to question him… very well. This accused had managed until now to conceal his identity… that is our case, isn’t it? Well !… What would you do, if at first glance you recognized your best friend, or your most cruel enemy, in disguise?… What would you do?… –I would say to myself that he is committing culpable imprudence, the magistrate who exposes himself to having to hesitate between his duty and his passion, and I would recuse myself. –I understand, but would you reveal the true personality of this accused, friend or enemy, a personality that only you would know?… The question was delicate, the answer embarrassing. Lecoq remained silent, reflecting. –Me! cried Father Absinthe, I would reveal nothing at all. Friend or enemy of the accused, I would remain absolutely neutral. I would say to myself that others are looking for who he is, it will be so much the better if they find him… and I would have a clear conscience. It was the cry of honesty, not the consultation of a casuist. “I would also keep quiet,” the young policeman finally replied, “and it seems to me that by keeping quiet I would not be failing in any of the magistrate’s obligations. ” Father Tabaret rubbed his hands vigorously, as he does when he is about to draw a victorious argument from his arsenal. “That being so,” he said, “do me the pleasure, my son, of telling me what What pretext would you imagine to recuse yourself without arousing suspicion? –Ah! I don’t know, I can’t answer off the cuff… if I were there, I would look, I would ingenuity…. –And you wouldn’t find anything worthwhile, interrupted the good man, come on, no bad faith, confess it… or rather, if… you would find M. d’Escorval’s expedient and you would use it; you would pretend to break some limb, only, as you are a clever fellow, it is the arm that you would sacrifice, which would be less inconvenient and would not condemn you to a confinement of several months. From Lecoq’s face, it was easy to see that the old volunteer from the Rue de Jérusalem had led him to suspicion… But more positive assurances were needed, with this precise and in some way mathematical mind. He hadn’t lined up figures for nothing for years. “So, Monsieur Tabaret,” he said, “your opinion is that Monsieur d’Escorval knows what to make of Mai’s personality?” Father Tirauclair sat up so suddenly that his forgotten gout forced a groan from him. “Do you doubt it?” he cried. “Do you really doubt it? What proof do you demand? Would you consider this coincidence of the judge’s fall and the defendant’s attempt at self-harm to be natural? To the credit of your perspicacity, I suppose not. I wasn’t there like you, I couldn’t judge with my own eyes; but just from what you’ve told me, I’ll undertake to restore the scene as it took place. I seem to see it… listen: Monsieur d’Escorval, his investigation at the widow Chupin’s house completed, arrives at the Depot and has Mai’s cell opened… These two men recognize each other. If they had been alone, they would have explained themselves, and things would have taken a different turn… perhaps everything would have been arranged. But they were not alone; there was a third party there: the clerk. So they said nothing to each other. The judge, in a troubled voice, asked a few banal questions, and the defendant, horribly troubled, answered as best he could. The door closed, M. d’Escorval said to himself: No, I cannot be the judge of this man whom I hate!… His perplexities were terrible. When you wanted to speak to him as he left, he abruptly sent you back to the next day, and a quarter of an hour later, he was feigning a fall. “So,” Lecoq asked, “you think that M. d’Escorval and our so-called Mai are enemies? ” “Of course!” replied the man in his clear, sharp little voice ; “don’t the facts prove it?” If they were friends, the judge would probably have played his part, but the defendant would not have tried to strangle himself… Finally, thanks to you, Mai was saved… because he owes his life to you, that man. Wrapped in his straitjacket, he was unable to do anything all night… Ah! That night he must have been drenched in a sweat of blood! What suffering! What agony!… So, in the morning, when he was led to the investigation, it was with a sort of frenzy whose transports had struck you, oh blind man!… that he rushed into the judge’s chambers. In those chambers, he expected to find M. d’Escorval triumphant over his misfortune. I don’t suppose he intended to rush at him, but he wanted to say to him: Well! Yes!… yes, it’s me. Fate intervened: I killed three men, and you have me, I am at your discretion… But precisely because there is a mortal intolerance between us, you owe it to yourself not to prolong my tortures!… to abuse would be an infamous act of cowardice!… Yes, he meant that or almost that, Lecoq, my boy, if you have correctly described the expression on his face, where haughtiness vied with the fiercest despair. But that is not all. Instead of M. d’Escorval, that haughty magistrate, the defendant sees the worthy, the excellent Mr. Segmuller… So, what’s happening? He is surprised and his eye betrays the astonishment he feels at the generosity of his enemy… He had believed him to be implacable. Then a smile rises to his lips, a smile of hope, for he thinks that since Mr. d’Escorval has not betrayed his secret, he can still save himself, and that perhaps he will withdraw intact from this abyss of kindness and blood his honor and his name… Father Tabaret made an ironic movement with his hand that was familiar to him, and suddenly changing his tone, he added: “And there you have it… my son! ” Old Absinthe had stood up, gripped to the point of delirium. “Cristi!” he cried, “that’s it!… oh! that’s it!” For being mute, Lecoq’s approval was no less evident. Better than his old colleague, and with more exact knowledge of the facts, he could appreciate this rapid and marvelous work of induction. He was ecstatic before the surprising investigative faculties of this eccentric detective, who, on circumstances unnoticed by him, Lecoq, reconstructed the drama of the truth, like those naturalists who, on the sole inspection of two or three bones, draw the animal to which they belonged. For a good minute, Father Tabaret savored these two forms of admiration, so diverse but equally delicious for him; then, regaining his calm, he continued: “Do you need a few more little proofs, Lecoq, my son? Remember M. d’Escorval’s perseverance in sending to ask M. Segmuller for news of the investigation. I admit, certainly, that one is passionate about one’s profession… but not to that point. At that moment, you still thought the leg was broken.” How come you didn’t think that a judge, on the pallet, with his bones in pieces, wouldn’t worry so much about a miserable incident?… I’m not broken, I only have gout, but I know very well that during my attacks, half the world would judge the other half without the idea coming to me to send Manette to the news. Ah! A second’s reflection would have saved you a lot of trouble, because that, probably, is the crux of the whole affair… Lecoq, such a brilliant conversationalist at the Widow Chupin’s cabaret, so full of self-confidence, so sparkling with verve when he expounded his theories to the innocent Father Absinthe, Lecoq lowered his nose and said nothing. And there was neither calculation nor spite in his attitude. Having come to ask for advice, he found it perfectly natural— rare common sense—that it should be given to him. He had made mistakes, they were pointed out to him, he was not indignant about them,—another marvel!—and he did not seek to demonstrate that he had been especially right when he had been wrong. Others, in his place, would have judged Father Tirauclair a little too verbose in his sermons; he, not so. He knew, on the contrary, that he was infinitely grateful for the reprimand, swearing to himself that it would profit him. —If anyone, he thought, can remove the horrible thorn in my foot, it is assuredly this perceptive fellow… and he will remove it, I can see it clearly from his assurance. Meanwhile, M. Tabaret had poured himself a large glass of herbal tea and swallowed it.
He wiped his lips and continued: “I will only speak for the record, my boy, of the school you have done in not tearing from Toinon-la-Vertu, while she was at your service, all that she knew of the affair… When you have the hen…, you know the proverb?… you must pluck her at once, otherwise…” “Rest assured, Monsieur Tabaret, I am paid to remember the danger one runs in letting a well-disposed witness cool off.” “Let’s move on then!… But what I must tell you is that three or four times, at least, you had the means to clear things up…” He stopped, waiting for some protest from his pupil. It did not come. period. –If he says so, thought the young policeman, it must be… This discretion struck the old man greatly and redoubled the esteem he had conceived for Lecoq’s character. –The first time you missed the boat, he continued, was when you were walking around with the earring found at the Poivrière. –Ah!… I did, however, try everything to get to the last owner!… –A lot of trying, I don’t say no, my son, but everything… that’s saying too much. For example, when you learned that the Baroness de Watchau was dead and that everything she owned had been sold, what did you do?… –You know, I ran to the auctioneer in charge of the sale. “Very well!… Afterwards?…” “I examined the catalog, and not discovering any jewel whose description applied to these beautiful diamonds, I recognized that the trail was lost…” Father Tirauclair was jubilant. “Exactly!” he cried, “that’s where you were mistaken. If this jewel of such great value was not described in the sale catalog , it was because the Baroness de Watchau no longer possessed it at the time of her death. If she no longer possessed it, it was because she had given it or sold it. To whom?… To one of her friends, most likely. That is why, in your place, I would have inquired into the names of Madame de Watchau’s close friends, which was easy, and I would have tried to get on good terms with all the maids of these friends… handsome fellow as you are, it would have been a game for you.” This advice seemed to amuse Father Absinthe prodigiously. “Eh! eh!” he laughed, with his person of all types of bodies, “this police system would suit me nicely.” M. Tabaret did not notice the exclamation. “Finally,” he continued, “I would have shown the earring to all these maids, until one of them said to me: This diamond belongs to my mistress, or one who, at the sight of it, would have been seized by a nervous tremor… ” “And to think,” murmured Lecoq, “that this idea never occurred to me!…” “Wait, wait… I come to the second missed opportunity. How did you behave when you had in your possession the trunk that Mai claimed was hers? You blandly handed it over to this shrewd defendant. ” Saperlotte!… you were not unaware that this trunk was only an accessory to the comedy, that it could only have been left at Mrs. Milner’s house by the accomplice, that all the belongings in it had been bought after the fact… –No, I was not unaware of that… But what use can I make of my certainty? –What use, oh my son?… I, who am only a poor old fellow, would have summoned the whole rank and file of the second-hand clothes dealers of Paris, and I would have, in the end, unearthed one who would have cried out: These clothes?… it was I who sold them to an individual like that and like that, who was buying on behalf of one of his friends whose measure he had brought. In his anger against himself, Lecoq flew into a rage and shook the piece of furniture placed against him with a furious blow of his fist. “Blimey!” he cried, “the method was infallible and simple as pie. Ah!… I will never forgive myself for my ineptitude for the rest of my life!” “Easy, easy!” interrupted the old man, “you’re going too far, my dear boy. Ineptitude is not the word at all; it’s frivolity that should be said… You’re young, for heaven’s sake! What would be less excusable is the way you led the hunt for the accused after his escape… ” “Alas!” murmured the young policeman, discouraged, “God knows I ‘ve gone to so much trouble!” ” Too much, my son, a thousand times too much, and that’s what I blame you for. What the hell kind of idea possessed you to follow this so-called May step by step, like a common stalker. ” This time, Lecoq was astounded. “Should I let him escape?” he asked. –No, but if I had been beside you, under the galleries of the Odéon, when you so skillfully,–for you are skillful, oh my son,–and promptly guessed the intentions of the accused, I would have said to you: This fellow, friend Lecoq, is running to Madame Milner to tell her to make known his escape… let him run. And when he left the Hôtel de Mariembourg, I would have added: Now, let him go where he wants, but stick to Madame Milner, don’t lose sight of her, don’t leave her any more than a shadow leaves the body, for she will lead you to the accomplice, that is to say, to the answer to the riddle. –And she would have led me there, yes, I recognize him…. –Instead of that, however, what did you imagine?… You ran to show yourself at the Hôtel de Mariembourg, you terrified the boy! When you have set traps and you intend to catch fish, you do not beat a drum next to them!… Thus Father Tabaret took up the entire investigation, and following it step by step, he redid it according to his method of induction. Lecoq had had a magnificent inspiration at the beginning, he had displayed a superior genius during the investigation, and yet he had not succeeded. Why?… It was because he had always deviated from the principle accepted at the beginning and summarized by him in this axiom: Distrust probability . But the young detective listened only with half an ear. A thousand projects presented themselves to his mind. Soon he could hold it no longer. “You have just saved me from despair, sir,” he interrupted. ” I thought everything was lost, and I discover that my stupidities can be repaired. What I have not done, I can do, there is still time.” Don’t I always have the earring and various belongings of the accused at my disposal?… Mrs. Milner still runs the Mariembourg hotel, I’ll keep an eye on her… –And why all this trouble, boy? –How, why?… To find my accused, then!… Less full of his idea, Lecoq would have surprised the subtle smile that wandered on Tirauclair’s silly lips. –Ah, my son, he asked, don’t you have any idea of the real name of your so-called acrobat? Lecoq shuddered and turned his head away. He didn’t want to let his eyes be seen. –No, he replied in a moved voice, I have no idea…. –You’re lying, interrupted the old man, you know as well as I do that Mai lives on the rue de Grenelle-Saint-Germain, and that his name is M. le duc de Sairmeuse. At these words, Father Absinthe burst out laughing. –Ah! what a joke, he cried: Ah! ah!… Such was not Lecoq’s opinion. –Well!… yes, Monsieur Tabaret, he said, I had that idea, too, but I chased it away… –Really!… and for what reason, if you please?… –Lady, it’s that…. –It’s that you don’t know how to remain within the logic of your premises. But I know it, I am consistent, and I say to myself: It seems impossible that the incident of Chupin’s cabaret is the Duke of Sairmeuse…. Therefore, the incident of Chupin’s cabaret, Mai, the so-called acrobat, is the Duke of Sairmeuse! Chapter 43. How had this idea come to Father Tabaret? This is what Lecoq could not understand. That he, Lecoq, had had it when his accused had, so to speak, vanished, like a light mist, was hardly conceivable. Despair gives birth to the most absurd chimeras, and besides, a few words from Couturier could serve as a pretext for all suppositions. But Father Tirauclair was cool-headed, he… but Couturier’s words had lost all their value in being reported… The good man could not fail to notice the young policeman’s astonished expression, and, from then on, unraveling his feelings was easy. “You look as if you were stunned, boy,” he said to him. “Do you imagine that I spoke at random, like a starling?” –No, certainly, sir, but…. –Shut up! Your surprise comes from the fact that you don’t know the first word of contemporary history. Your education, on this point, is in need of some education, and you will do it, if you don’t want to remain all your life a crude hunter of scoundrels like your enemy Gevrol. –I confess that I don’t see the connection…. M. Tabaret did not deign to answer this question. He turned towards Father Absinthe, and in the friendliest tone: –Do me the favor, old man, he said to him, of taking from my library, next door, two persons of all types of body in folio, entitled: General Biography of the Men of the Century. They are in the cupboard on the right. Father Absinthe hastened to obey, and as soon as he was in possession of his volumes, Father Tabaret began to leaf through them with a feverish hand, not without announcing, as always when one looks up a word in the dictionary. “Esbayron!” he stammered, “Escars…, Escayrac…, Escher…, Escodica… At last, here we are! Escorval!… Listen to me carefully, my son, and light will dawn on your brain. ” There was no need for the recommendation. The young policeman’s faculties had never been more tense. It was in a curt voice that the good man read: ESCORVAL (Louis-Guillaume, Baron d’).– French administrator and politician, born in Montaignac, on December 3, 1769, of an old family of lawyers. He was completing his studies in Paris when the Revolution broke out, and he embraced its cause with all the ardor of youth. But, soon terrified by the excesses committed in the name of liberty, he sided with the reaction, perhaps advised by Roederer, who was a friend of his family. Recommended to the First Consul by M. de Talleyrand, he began his administrative career with a mission to Switzerland, and for as long as the Empire lasted, he was involved in the most important negotiations. Devoted body and soul to the person of the Emperor, he found himself seriously compromised during the second Restoration. Arrested during the troubles of Montaignac under the double charge of high treason and conspiracy within the country, he was brought before a military commission and condemned to death. But he was not executed. He owed his life to the noble devotion and heroic energy of a priest friend of his, Abbé Midon, parish priest of the small village of Sairmeuse. Baron d’Escorval has only one son, who entered the judiciary at a very young age… Lecoq’s disappointment was great. “I understand,” he said, “it’s the biography of our judge’s father… Only, I don’t see what it tells us.” An ironic smile played on Father Tirauclair’s lips. “It tells us,” he replied, “that M. d’Escorval senior was condemned to death. It’s something, I assure you… A little patience, and you’ll recognize him…” He had leafed through his dictionary again; he resumed his reading: SAIRMEUSE (Anne-Marie-Victor de Tingry, Duke of).– French politician and general, born at the Château de Sairmeuse, near Montaignac, on January 17, 1758. The Sairmeuse family is one of the oldest and most illustrious in France. It should not, however, be confused with the ducal family of Sermeuse, whose name is written with an e. An emigrant at the first stirrings of the Revolution, Anne de Sairmeuse distinguished himself by the most brilliant courage in the army of Condé. A few years later, he requested service from Russia, and fought, some of his biographers say, in the Russian ranks during the disastrous retreat from Moscow. Returning to France in the wake of the Bourbons, he acquired a noisy celebrity by the exaltation of his ultra-royalist opinions. It is true that he had the good fortune to return to possession of his family’s immense estates, and the ranks he had earned abroad were confirmed. Appointed by the king to preside over the military commission responsible to pursue and judge the conspirators of Montaignac, he displayed rigor and partiality that would stigmatize all parties. Lecoq had raised his eyes sparkling. “Holy thunder!” he cried, “I see clearly now. The father of the current Duke of Sairmeuse wanted to have the neck of the father of our M. d’Escorval cut… ” M. Tabaret beamed. “That’s what history is for,” he said. “But I haven’t finished, boy; our own Duke of Sairmeuse also has his article…” Listen again: SAIRMEUSE (Anne-Marie-Martial), son of the previous one, was born in London in 1791 and was raised first in England, then at the court of Austria, near which he was later to fulfill various confidential missions. Heir to his father’s opinions, prejudices, and grudges, he placed the highest intelligence and admirable faculties at the service of his party… Brought to the fore at a time when political passions were at their most violent, he had the courage to assume sole responsibility for the most terrible measures… Forced to withdraw from affairs in the face of general animadversion, he left behind intolerances that would only die out with his life… The good man closed the volume, and, putting on a false modesty: “Well!…” he asked, “what do you think, boy, of my little method of induction?” But the other was too preoccupied to reply. “I think,” he objected, “that if the Duke of Sairmeuse had disappeared for two months, the time of the May warning, all of Paris would have known about it, and so… ” “You’re dreaming!” interrupted Father Tabaret. With his wife and his valet as accomplices, the Duke will be absent for a year whenever he wishes, and all his servants will believe he is at the hotel…. The young policeman’s tense face spoke of the effort of his thought. “I admit that,” he finally pronounced, “I resign myself to believing that this great lord knew how to play the marvelous role of May… Unfortunately, there is one circumstance which, alone, overturns the whole scaffolding of our suppositions… ” “And which one, if you please!…” “If the man from the Poivrière had been the Duke of Sairmeuse, he would have named himself… he would have explained how, attacked, he had defended himself… and his name alone would have opened the prison doors for him. Instead of that, what did our accused do?… He tried to strangle himself.” Would a great lord such as the Duke of Sairmeuse, whose life must be a perpetual enchantment, ever have thought of self-harm!… A mocking whistle from Father Tabaret interrupted the young policeman. “It seems,” the old man said, “that you have forgotten the last sentence of the biography: M. de Sairmeuse leaves behind him terrible intolerances … Do you know what price he would have been made to pay for his freedom? No… nor do I. What we do know is that it is not his party that triumphs… To explain his presence at the Poivrière… and the presence of a woman who perhaps was his, who knows what secrets of infamy he would have been obliged to reveal… Between self-harm and shame, he chose self-harm… He wanted to save his name… he made a shroud of his intact honor. Father Tirauclair spoke with such extraordinary vehemence that old Absinthe was moved by it, although he had not, in truth, understood much of this scene. He was filled with enthusiasm with confidence. As for Lecoq, he stood up, pale and with slightly trembling lips, like a man who has just made a supreme decision. “You will excuse my deception, Monsieur Tabaret,” he said in a moved voice. “I had thought all that… But I mistrusted myself, I wanted to hear you say it…” He made a careless gesture and added: “Now I know what I have to do. ” Father Tabaret raised his arms to the sky with all the signs of the most terrible agitation. “Unhappy man!” he cried, “would you even think of going to arrest the Duke of Sairmeuse? Poor Lecoq! Free, that man is almost all-powerful, and you, a tiny agent of the security service, you would be shattered like glass! Take care, my son! Do not attack the Duke, I would not even answer for your life. ” The young policeman nodded. “Oh! I am not mistaken,” he said. “I know that at this moment the Duke is beyond my reach… But I will hold him the day I have penetrated his secret… I despise danger, but I know that to succeed I must hide… so I will hide. Yes, I will remain in the shadows until the day I have lifted the veil of this dark affair… then I will appear. And if truly Mai is the Duke of Sairmeuse… I will have my revenge.” END OF PART ONE You have just read the captivating pages of Monsieur Lecoq — Volume 1 by Émile Gaboriau, a story where every detail counts and where the spirit of observation becomes a formidable weapon against crime. This first part highlights all the finesse of an atypical detective, both perceptive and daring, whose adventures herald the evolution of the detective genre. If this journey through dark alleys and interrogation rooms has captivated you, know that the story continues and still holds many revelations. Thank you for listening and join us again soon for other literary masterpieces that awaken curiosity, reflection, and a passion for timeless mysteries.
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👍 N'oubliez pas de liker, partager, commenter et vous abonner ! 🔔📲
I found some problems with your YouTube channel. I want to discuss them with you. For example, even though you have enough viewers, there are no likes, comments, and shares on your videos. Some of YouTube's algorithms have been updated. So if you don't know about these, you won't be able to take your YouTube channel very far.