Chapter XIV: Part 14

The Duke de Sairmeuse was one of those men who remain superior to circumstances. He was possessed of vast experience, and great natural shrewdness. His mind was quick to act, and fertile in resources. But when he found himself immured in the damp and loathsome station-house at the Place d’Italie, after the terrible scene we have just recalled, he felt inclined to relinquish all hope. He knew that justice does not trust to appearances, and that when an investigating magistrate finds himself in presence of a mystery, he does not rest until he has fathomed it. He knew only too well, moreover, that if his identity was established, the authorities would endeavour to discover the reason that had led him to the Poivriere; now he could scarcely doubt but what this reason would soon be discovered, and, in that case, the crime at the Borderie, and the duchess’s guilt, would undoubtedly be made public. This meant the Assize Court for the woman who bore his name--imprisonment, perhaps execution, at all events, a frightful scandal, dishonour, eternal disgrace! And the power he had wielded in former days was a positive disadvantage to him now, when his past position was filled by his political adversaries. Among them were two personal enemies, whose vanity he once had wounded, and who had never forgiven him. They would certainly not neglect the present opportunity for revenge. At the thought of such an ineffaceable stain on the great name of Sairmeuse, which was his pride and glory, reason almost forsook him. “My God, inspire me,” he murmured. “How shall I save the honour of the name?”

He saw but one chance of salvation--death. They now believed him to be one of the miserable loafers who haunt the suburbs of Paris; if he were dead they would not trouble themselves about his identity. “It is the only way!” he thought, and he was indeed endeavouring to find some means of committing suicide, when suddenly he heard a bustle outside his cell. A few moments afterwards the door was opened and a man was thrust in--a man who staggered a few steps, fell heavily on to the floor, and then began to snore. The new arrival was apparently only some vulgar drunkard.

A minute or so elapsed, and then a vague, strange hope touched Martial’s heart--no, he must be mistaken--and yet--yes, certainly this drunkard was Otto--Otto in disguise, and almost unrecognizable! It was a bold ruse and no time must be lost in profiting by it. Martial stretched himself on a bench, as if to sleep, and in such a way that his head was close to Otto’s. “The duchess is out of danger,” murmured the faithful servant.

“For to-day, perhaps. But to-morrow, through me everything will be discovered.”

“Have you told them who you are?”

“No; all the police agents but one took me for a vagabond.”

“You must continue to personate that character.”

“What good will it do? Jean Lacheneur will betray me.” But Martial, though he little knew it, had no need to fear Lacheneur for the present, at least. A few hours previously, on his way in the dark from the Rainbow to to the Poivriere, Jean had fallen to the bottom of a stone quarry, and fractured his skull. The labourers, on returning to their work early in the morning, found him lying there senseless; and that very moment they were carrying him to the hospital.

Although Otto also was ignorant of this circumstances, he did not seem discouraged. “There will be some way of getting rid of Lacheneur,” said he, “if you will only sustain your present character. An escape is an easy matter when a man has millions at his command.”

“They will ask me who I am, where I’ve come from, and how I’ve lived.”

“You speak English and German, don’t you; tell them that you have just returned from foreign parts; that you were a foundling, and that you have always lived a roving life.”

“How can I prove that?”

Otto drew a little nearer his master, and said, impressively: “We must agree on our plans, for success depends on a perfect understanding between us. I have a sweetheart in Paris--and no one knows of our connection. She is as sharp as steel. Her name is Milner, and she keeps the Hotel de Mariembourg, in the Rue Saint-Quentin. You can say that you arrived here from Leipsic on Sunday; that you went to that hotel, that you left your trunk there, and that it has a card nailed to the top with your name--say May, foreign artist.”

“Capital!” said Martial, approvingly. And then, with extraordinary quickness and precision, they agreed, point by point, on their plan of defense. When everything had been arranged, Otto pretended to awake from the heavy sleep of intoxication; he clamoured to be released, and the keeper finally opened the door and set him at liberty. Before leaving the station-house, however, he succeeded in throwing a note to the Widow Chupin, who was imprisoned in the opposite cell. So, when Lecoq, after his skilful investigations at the Poivriere, rushed to the Place d’Italie, panting with hope and ambition, he found himself outwitted by these men, who were inferior to him in penetration, but whose tact was superior to his own.

Martial’s plans being fully formed, he intended to carry them out with absolute perfection of detail, and, after his removal to the Depot, he was preparing himself for the investigating magistrate’s visit, when Maurice d’Escorval entered his cell. They recognized each other. They were both terribly agitated, and the examination was an examination only in name. After Maurice’s departure Martial attempted to destroy himself; for he had no faith in his former enemy’s generosity. But when he found M. Segmuller occupying Maurice’s place the next morning, he really believed that he was saved.

Then began that struggle between the magistrate and Lecoq on one side, and the prisoner on the other--a struggle in which neither conquered. Martial knew that Lecoq was the only person he had to fear, still he bore him no ill-will. Faithful to his nature, which compelled him to be just even to his enemies, he could not help admiring the astonishing penetration and perseverance of this young police agent, who, undismayed by the obstacles surrounding him, struggled on, unassisted, to reach the truth. But Lecoq was always outwitted by Otto, the mysterious accomplice, who seemed to know his every movement in advance. At the Morgue, at the Hotel de Mariembourg, with Toinon, the wife of Polyte Chupin, as well as with Polyte himself Lecoq was always just a little too late. He detected the secret correspondence between the prisoner and his accomplice, and he was even ingenious enough to discover the key to it, but this served no purpose. A man, who had seen a rival, or rather a future master in Lecoq--in short, Gevrol--had betrayed him. If his efforts to arrive at the truth through the jeweller and the Marchioness d’Arlange had failed, it was only because Blanche had not purchased the diamond ear-rings she wore at the Poivriere at any shop, but from one of her friends, the Baroness de Watchau. And finally, if no one in Paris had missed the Duke de Sairmeuse, it was because--thanks to an understanding between the duchess, Otto, and Camille--no other inmates of the Hotel de Sairmeuse suspected his absence. All the servants supposed that the duke was confined to his room by illness. His breakfast and dinner were taken up to his private apartments every day; and soups and tisanes were prepared ostensibly for his benefit.

So the weeks went by, and Martial was expecting to be summoned before the Assize Court and condemned under the name of May, when he was afforded an opportunity to escape. Too shrewd not to discern the trap that had been set for him, it was only after horrible hesitation that he decided to alight from the prison-van, determined to run the risk, and commending himself for protection to his lucky star. And he decided wisely, for that same night he leaped over his own garden wall, leaving an escaped convict, Joseph Couturier by name, whom he had picked up in a low eating-house, as a hostage in Lecoq’s hands. Warned by Madame Milner, thanks to a blunder which Lecoq committed, Otto was waiting for his master. In the twinkling of an eye Martial’s beard fell under the razor; he plunged into the bath which was already prepared, and his clothes were burned. And he it was who, during the search a few minutes later, had the hardihood to call out: “Otto, by all means allow these men to do their duty.” But he did not breathe freely until the police-agents had departed. “At last,” he exclaimed, “honour is saved! We have outwitted Lecoq!”

He had just left his bath, and assumed a dressing-gown, when Otto handed him a letter from the duchess. He hastily opened the envelope and read: “You are safe. You know everything. I am dying. Farewell. I loved you.”

With two bounds he reached his wife’s apartments. The outer door was locked: he burst it open; but he came to late. Blanche was dead--poisoned, like Marie-Anne; but she had procured a drug having an instantaneous effect, and extended on her couch, clad in her wonted apparel, her hands folded over her breast, she seemed only asleep. A tear glistened in Martial’s eye. “Poor, unhappy woman!” he murmured; “may God forgive you as I forgive you--you whose crime has been so frightfully expiated here below!”

EPILOGUE.

SAFE, in his own princely mansion, and surrounded by an army of retainers, the Duke de Sairmeuse had triumphantly exclaimed: “We have outwitted Lecoq!”

In this he was right; for the young detective was certainly nonplussed for the time being; but when his grace fancied himself for ever beyond this wily, keen-witted, aspiring agent’s reach, he was most decidedly wrong. Lecoq was not the man to sit down with folded hands and brood over the humiliation of defeat. Before he went to old Tabaret, he was beginning to recover from his despondency; and when he left that experienced detective’s presence, he had regained his courage, energy, and command over his faculties. “Well, my worthy friend,” he remarked to Father Absinthe, who was trotting along by his side, “you heard what the great Monsieur Tabaret said, didn’t you? So you see I was right.”

But his companion evinced no enthusiasm. “Yes, you were right,” he responded, in woe-begone tones.

“Do you think we are ruined by two or three mistakes? Nonsense! I will soon turn to-day’s defeat into a glorious victory.”

“Ah! you might do so perhaps, if--they don’t dismiss us from the force.”

This doleful remark recalled Lecoq to a sense of his present position. He and Absinthe had allowed a prisoner to slip through their fingers. That was vexatious, it is true; but, on the other hand, they had captured a most notorious criminal--Joseph Couturier. Surely there was some comfort in that. Still, of course, they both might be dismissed--and yet Lecoq could have borne the prospect, dismal as it was, if it had not been for the thought that dismissal would for ever prevent him from following up the Poivriere affair. What would his superiors say when he told them that May and the Duke de Sairmeuse were one and the same person. They would, no doubt, shrug their shoulders and turn up their noses. “Still, M. Segmuller will believe me,” he thought. “But will he dare to take any action in the matter without patent evidence before him?”

This was very unlikely, as Lecoq fully realized, and for a moment he asked himself if he and his fellows could not make a descent on the Hotel de Sairmeuse, and, on some pretext or other, compel the duke to show himself. It would then be easy to identify him as the prisoner May. However, after a little thought he dismissed the idea. “It would be a stupid expedient!” he exclaimed. “Two such men as the duke and his accomplice are not likely to be caught napping. They are prepared for such a visit, and we should only have our labour for our pains.”

He made these reflections in a low tone of voice; and Father Absinthe’s curiosity was aroused. “Excuse me,” said the old veteran, “I don’t quite understand you.”

“I say that we must find some tangible proof before asking permission to proceed further--” Lecoq paused with knitted brows. An idea had occurred to him. He fancied he could prove complicity between at least one of the witnesses summoned to give evidence, and some member of the duke’s household. He was indeed thinking of Madame Milner, the landlady of the Hotel de Mariembourg, and of his first meeting with her. He saw her again, in his mind’s eye, standing on a chair, her face on a level with a cage, covered with a large piece of black silk, while she persistently repeated three or four German words to a starling, who with equal persistency retorted: “Camille! Where is Camille?” “One thing is certain,” exclaimed Lecoq aloud, “if Madame Milner--who is a German, and who speaks French with the strongest possible German accent--had reared this bird, it would either have spoken in German or else in French, and in the latter case with the same accent as its mistress. So it can’t have been in her possession long; but then who can have given it to her?”

Father Absinthe was beginning to grow impatient “In sober earnest, what are you talking about?” he asked, petulantly.

“I say that if there is any one at the Hotel de Sairmeuse named Camille, I have the proof I wish for. Come, Papa Absinthe, let us hurry on.” And without another word of explanation, he dragged his companion rapidly towards the Seine.

When they reached the Rue de Grenelle, Lecoq perceived a commissionaire leaning against the door of a wine-shop. He walked straight towards him. “Come, my good fellow,” said he. “I want you to go to the Hotel de Sairmeuse and ask for Camille. Tell her that her uncle is waiting for her here.”

“But, sir----”

“What, you haven’t gone yet?”

The messenger started off, and the two police agents entered the wine-shop, Father Absinthe scarcely having time to swallow a glass of brandy before the envoy returned. “I was unable to see Mademoiselle Camille,” said he. “The house is closed from top to bottom. The duchess died very suddenly this morning.”

“Ah! the wretch!” exclaimed the young police agent. Then controlling himself, he mentally added: “He must have killed his wife on returning home, but his fate is sealed. Now, I shall be allowed to continue my investigations.”

In less than twenty minutes they arrived at the Palais de Justice. M. Segmuller did not seem to be immoderately surprised by Lecoq’s revelations, though he listened with evident doubt to the young police agent’s ingenious deductions; it was the circumstance of the starling which at last decided him. “Perhaps you are right, my dear Lecoq,” he said, “and to tell the truth, I quite agree with you. But I can take no further action in the matter until you can furnish proof so convincing in its nature that the Duke de Sairmeuse will be unable to think of denying it.”

“Ah! sir, my superiors won’t allow me--”

“On the contrary,” interrupted the magistrate, “they will allow you the fullest liberty after I have spoken to them.” Such action on M. Segmuller’s part, required no little courage; for in official circles there had been considerable merriment over the magistrate’s mysterious man with the iron mask, disguised as a mountebank; and the former by his persistent support of the young detective’s theories, had almost become an object of ridicule.

“And when will you speak to them?” timidly inquired Lecoq.

“At once.”

The magistrate had already turned towards the door when the young police agent stopped him. “I have one more favour to ask you, sir,” he said, entreatingly. “You are so kind, you are the first person who has given me any encouragement--who has had any faith in me.”

“Speak, my good fellow.”

“Ah! sir, will you give me a message for M. d’Escorval? Any insignificant message--inform him of the prisoner’s escape. I will take it myself, and then--Oh! fear nothing, sir; I will be very prudent.”

“Very well!” replied the magistrate, “I will write him a note.”

When he finally left the office, Lecoq was fully authorized to proceed with his investigations, and he carried in his pocket M. Segmuller’s letter to M. d’Escorval. His satisfaction was so intense that he did not deign to notice the sneers bestowed upon him as he passed along the corridors; but on the threshold downstairs he encountered Gevrol the general, who was evidently watching for him. “Ah ha!” laughed the inspector, as Lecoq passed out, “here’s one of those simpletons who fish for whales and don’t even catch a gudgeon.”

For an instant Lecoq felt angry. He turned round abruptly and looked Gevrol full in the face. “At all events,” retorted he in the tone of a man _who_ knows what he’s saying. “That’s better than assisting prisoners to carry on a surreptitious correspondence with people outside.”

In his surprise, Gevrol almost lost countenance, and his blush was equivalent to a confession. But Lecoq did not add another word. What did it matter to him now if Gevrol had betrayed him! Was he not about to win a glorious revenge!

He spent the remainder of the day in preparing his plan of action, and in thinking what he should say when he took M. Segmuller’s note to Maurice d’Escorval. The next morning at about eleven o’clock he presented himself at the latter’s house. “M. d’Escorval is in his study with a young man,” replied the servant to the young detective’s inquiry, “but, as he gave me no orders to the contrary, you may go in.”

Lecoq entered, but found the study unoccupied. From the adjoining room, however, only separated from the study by velvet hangings, came a sound of stifled exclamations, of sobs mingled with kisses. Not knowing whether to remain or to retire, the young police-agent stood for a moment undecided; when suddenly he perceived an open letter lying on the carpet. Impelled by an impulse stronger than his will, Lecoq picked the letter up, and his eyes meeting the signature, he started back in surprise. He could not now refrain from reading this missive which ran as follows:

“The bearer of this letter is Marie-Anne’s son--your son, Maurice.
I have given him all the proofs necessary to establish his
identity. It was to his education that I consecrated poor
Marie-Anne’s inheritance. Those to whose care I confided him have
made a noble man of him. If I restore him to you, it is only
because the life I lead is not a fitting life for him. Yesterday,
the miserable woman who murdered my sister died from poison
administered by her own hand. Poor Marie-Anne! she would have been
far more terribly avenged had not an accident which happened to me
saved the Duke and the Duchess de Sairmeuse from the snare into
which I had drawn them.

“JEAN LACHENEUR.”

Lecoq stood as if petrified. Now he understood the terrible drama enacted in the Widow Chupin’s cabin. “I must go to Sairmeuse at once,” he said to himself; “there I can discover everything.” He left the room without seeing M. d’Escorval, and even successfully resisted the temptation to take Lacheneur’s letter with him.

Exactly a month had transpired since Blanche’s death. His grace the Duke de Sairmeuse was reclining on a divan in his library, reading one of his favourite authors, when Otto his valet de chambre came in to inform him that a messenger was below, charged with delivering into his grace’s own hands a letter from M. d’Escorval.

Martial sprang to his feet. “It is impossible,” he exclaimed; and then he quickly added: “Let the messenger come up.”

A tall man, with florid complexion, and red hair and beard, timidly handed the duke a letter. Martial instantly broke the seal, and read:

“I saved you, monsieur, by not recognizing the prisoner.

May. In your turn assist me. By noon on the day after to-morrow, I
must have two hundred and sixty thousand francs. I have sufficient
confidence in your honour to apply to you.

“MAURICE D’ESCORVAL.”

For a moment Martial stood bewildered, then springing to a table he
began writing, without noticing that the messenger was looking over
his shoulder: “Monsieur--Not the day after to-morrow, but this
evening, what you ask will be at your service. My fortune and my
life are at your disposal. It is but a slight return for the
generosity shown by you in withdrawing, when, under the rags of
May, you recognized your former enemy, but now your devoted friend.

“MARTIAL DE SAIRMEUSE.”

The duke folded this letter with a feverish hand, and giving it to the messenger with a louis, he said: “Here is the answer, make haste!”

But the messenger did not stir. He slipped the letter into his pocket, and then hastily cast his red beard and wig on the floor.

“Lecoq!” exclaimed Martial, paler than death.

“Lecoq, yes, sir,” replied the young detective. “I was obliged to take my revenge; my future depended on it, and so I ventured to imitate M. d’Escorval’s writing.” And as Martial offered no remark: “I must also say to Monsieur le Duc,” he continued, “that if your grace will transmit a confession of your presence at the Poivriere in your own hand-writing to the investigating magistrate I can and will at the same time furnish proofs of your grace’s innocence--that you were dragged into a snare, and that you only acted in self-defense.”

Martial looked up in fair astonishment, but to show that he was acquainted with everything, Lecoq slowly added: “As madame is dead, there will be nothing said concerning what took place at the Borderie.”

A week later a private report setting forth that there were no grounds to proceed against the Duke de Sairmeuse was forwarded by M. Segmuller to the public prosecutor.

Appointed to the position of inspector, which he coveted. Lecoq had the good taste, or perhaps, the shrewdness, to wear his honours modestly. But on the day of his promotion, he ordered a seal, on which was engraved the exultant rooster, his chosen armorial design, with a motto to which he ever remained faithful: “_Semper Vigilans_.”

FINIS.

* * * * *

Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber:

acticles=> acticles {pg 6}

he broached the subject fo the duke=> he broached the subject to the duke {pg 14}

The Marquise de Sairmeuse will be our spy=> The Marquis de Sairmeuse will be our spy {pg 31}

exclaimed Lacheneur, in amazment;=> exclaimed Lacheneur, in amazement; {pg 38}

The last trial had overwhelmd her=> The last trial had overwhelmed her {pg 58}

Marquis de Courtoruieu had closed=> Marquis de Courtornieu had closed {pg 69}

Blanche de Courtorneiu had reached Montaignac=> Blanche de Courtornieu had reached Montaignac {pg 73}

knew of his imfamous intentions=> knew of his infamous intentions {pg 88}

his frequent nocturnal jonrneys=> his frequent nocturnal journeys {pg 89}

looking angrily at the sqectators=> looking angrily at the spectators {pg 90}

since it it absolutely necessary=> since it is absolutely necessary {pg 91}

as motionless as a statute=> as motionless as a statue {pg 109}

a soldier’s assistence is indispensable=> a soldier’s assistance is indispensable {pg 112}

The frontior bordering on Savoy=> The frontier bordering on Savoy {pg 127}

the military commision=> the military commission {pg 127}

he could scarely move them=> he could scarcely move them {pg 128}

It wont be easy to save you=> It won’t be easy to save you {pg 134}

Martial turned crimson, and look searchingly=> Martial turned crimson, and looked searchingly {pg 143}

Peoble told me=> People told me {pg 148}

there was the ask of misleading=> there was the task of misleading {pg 163}

did he breathe freeely=> did he breathe freely {pg 174}

that is not yet noon=> that it is not yet noon {pg 182}

the guards accompained him=> the guards accompanied him {pg 182}

Oh the morrow he scarcely ate=> On the morrow he scarcely ate {pg 188}

The abbe atributed this sudden=> The abbe attributed this sudden {pg 194}

She had commited=> She had committed {pg 234}

assumed and attitude=> assumed an attitude {pg 238}

the Baron d’Escoval’s terrible=> the Baron d’Escorval’s terrible {pg 238}

thay found him standing=> they found him standing {pg 249}

Am I to undersatand that Marie-Anne=> Am I to understand that Marie-Anne {pg 250}

in the pocket of of her dress=> in the pocket of her dress {pg 254}

after this occurance=> after this occurrence {pg 260}

He has so impatient to reach=> He was so impatient to reach {pg 273}

the clamours of conscience was sinking=> the clamours of conscience were sinking {pg 274}

The patients delirium => The patient’s delirium {pg 287}

Ducnesse de Sairmeuse=> Duchesse de Sairmeuse {pg 288}

the crime she had commited=> the crime she had committed {pg 291}

the happiness which when would have been his=> the happiness which then would have been his {pg 293}

formerely so irritably=> formerly so irritably {pg 293}

urging no the crowd=> urging on the crowd {pg 294}

the duke’s houshold=> the duke’s household {pg 309}