The Mystery of Orcival, Émile Gaboriau [fiction novels to read TXT] 📗

capable of the suspicions of which you speak.”

“I think there are more than suspicions,” resumed M. Plantat. “Madame de Trémorel, you know, has been murdered: her papers have, of course, been examined; letters have been found, with very damaging revelations, receipts, and so on.”

Robelot, apparently, was once more self-possessed; he forced himself to answer:

“Bast! let us hope that justice is in the wrong.”

Then, such was this man’s self-control, despite a nervous trembling which shook his whole body as the wind does the leaves, that he added, constraining his thin lips to form a smile:

“Madame Courtois does not come down; I am waited for at home, and will drop in again tomorrow. Good evening, gentlemen.”

He walked away, and soon the sand in the court was heard creaking with his steps. As he went, he staggered like a drunken man.

M. Lecoq went up to M. Plantat, and taking off his hat:

“I surrender,” said he, “and bow to you; you are great, like my master, the great Tabaret.”

The detective’s amour-propre was clearly aroused; his professional zeal was inspired; he found himself before a great crime⁠—one of those crimes which triple the sale of the Gazette of the Courts. Doubtless many of its details escaped him: he was ignorant of the starting-point; but he saw the way clearing before him. He had surprised Plantat’s theory, and had followed the train of his thought step by step; thus he discovered the complications of the crime which seemed so simple to M. Domini. His subtle mind had connected together all the circumstances which had been disclosed to him during the day, and now he sincerely admired the old justice of the peace. As he gazed at his beloved portrait, he thought, “Between the two of us⁠—this old fox and I⁠—we will unravel the whole web.” He would not, however, show himself to be inferior to his companion.

“Monsieur,” said he, “while you were questioning this rogue, who will be very useful to us, I did not lose any time. I’ve been looking about, under the furniture and so on, and have found this slip of paper.”

“Let’s see.”

“It is the envelope of the young lady’s letter. Do you know where her aunt, whom she was visiting, lives?”

“At Fontainebleau, I believe.”

“Ah; well, this envelope is stamped ‘Paris,’ Saint-Lazare branch post-office. I know this stamp proves nothing⁠—”

“It is, of course, an indication.”

“That is not all; I have read the letter itself⁠—it was here on the table.”

M. Plantat frowned involuntarily.

“It was, perhaps, a liberty,” resumed M. Lecoq, “but the end justifies the means. Well, you have read this letter; but have you studied it, examined the handwriting, weighed the words, remarked the context of the sentences?”

“Ah,” cried Plantat, “I was not mistaken then⁠—you had the same idea strike you that occurred to me!”

And, in the energy of his excitement he seized the detective’s hands and pressed them as if he were an old friend. They were about to resume talking when a step was heard on the staircase; and presently Dr. Gendron appeared.

“Courtois is better,” said he, “he is in a doze, and will recover.”

“We have nothing more, then, to keep us here,” returned M. Plantat. “Let’s be off. Monsieur Lecoq must be half dead with hunger.”

As they went away, M. Lecoq slipped Laurence’s letter, with the envelope, into his pocket.

X

M. Plantat’s house was small and narrow; a philosopher’s house. Three large rooms on the ground-floor, four chambers in the first story, an attic under the roof for the servants, composed all its apartments. Everywhere the carelessness of a man who has withdrawn from the world into himself, for years, ceasing to have the least interest in the objects which surround him, was apparent. The furniture was shabby, though it had been elegant; the mouldings had come off, the clocks had ceased to keep time, the chairs showed the stuffing of their cushions, the curtains, in places, were faded by the sun. The library alone betrayed a daily care and attention.

Long rows of books in calf and gilt were ranged on the carved oaken shelves, a movable table near the fireplace contained M. Plantat’s favorite books, the discreet friends of his solitude. A spacious conservatory, fitted with every accessory and convenience, was his only luxury. In it flourished one hundred and thirty-seven varieties of briars.

Two servants, the widow Petit, cook and housekeeper, and Louis, gardener, inhabited the house. If they did not make it a noisy one, it was because Plantat, who talked little, detested also to hear others talk. Silence was there a despotic law. It was very hard for Mme. Petit, especially at first. She was very talkative, so talkative that when she found no one to chat with, she went to confession; to confess was to chat. She came near leaving the place twenty times; but the thought of an assured pension restrained her. Gradually she became accustomed to govern her tongue, and to this cloistral silence. But she revenged herself outside for the privations of the household, and regained among the neighbors the time lost at home.

She was very much wrought up on the day of the murder. At eleven o’clock, after going out for news, she had prepared monsieur’s dinner; but he did not appear. She waited one, two hours, five hours, keeping her water boiling for the eggs; no monsieur. She wanted to send Louis to look for him, but Louis being a poor talker and not curious, asked her to go herself. The house was besieged by the female neighbors, who, thinking that Mme. Petit ought to be well posted, came for news; no news to give.

Toward five o’clock, giving up all thought of breakfast, she began to prepare for dinner. But when the village bell struck eight o’clock, monsieur had not made his appearance. At nine, the good woman was beside herself, and began to scold Louis, who had just come in from watering the garden, and, seated at the kitchen table, was soberly eating a plate of soup.

The bell rung.

“Ah, there’s monsieur, at last.”

No, it was