staircase had been put under guard, but the vestibule had remained free. People were heard coming and going, tramping and coughing; then rising above this continuous noise, the oaths of the gendarmes trying to keep back the crowd. From time to time, a scared face passed by the dining-room door, which was ajar. These were curious folks who, more daring than the rest, wished to see the “men of justice” eating, and tried to hear a word or two, to report them, and so become important in the eyes of the others. But the “men of justice”—as they said at Orcival—took care to say nothing of moment while the doors were open, and while a servant was passing to and fro. Greatly moved by this frightful crime, disturbed by the mystery which surrounded it, they hid their impressions. Each, on his part, studied the probability of his suspicions, and kept his opinion to himself.
M. Domini, as he ate, put his notes in order, numbering the leaves, marking certain peculiarly significant answers of the suspected persons with a cross. He was, perhaps, the least tormented of the four companions at this funereal repast. The crime did not seem to him one of those which keep judges of instruction sleepless through the night; he saw clearly the motive of it; and he had Bertaud and Guespin, two of the assassins, or at least accomplices, secure.
M. Plantat and Dr. Gendron, seated next each other, were talking of the illness which carried off Sauvresy. M. Courtois listened to the hubbub without.
The news of the double murder was soon noised about the neighborhood, and the crowd increased every minute. It filled the court, and became bolder and bolder; the gendarmes were overwhelmed. Then or never was the time for the mayor to show his authority. “I am going to make these people listen to reason,” said he, “and make them retire.” And at once, wiping his mouth, he threw his tumbled napkin on the table, and went out.
It was time. The brigadier’s injunctions were no longer heeded. Some curious people, more eager than the rest, had flanked the position and were forcing an entrance through the gate leading to the garden. The mayor’s presence did not perhaps intimidate the crowd much, but it redoubled the energy of the gendarmes; the vestibule was cleared, amid murmurings against the arm of the law. What a chance for a speech! M. Courtois was not wanting to the occasion. He believed that his eloquence, endowed with the virtues of a cold showerbath, would calm this unwonted effervescence of his constituency. He stepped forward upon the steps, his left hand resting in the opening of his vest, gesturing with his right in the proud and impassible attitude which the sculptor lends to great orators. It was thus that he posed before his council when, finding unexpected opposition, he undertook to impose his will upon them, and recall the recalcitrant members to their duty.
His speech, in fragments, penetrated to the dining-room. According as he turned to the right or to the left, his voice was clear and distinct, or was lost in space. He said:
“Fellow-citizens, an atrocious crime, unheard of before in our commune, has shocked our peaceable and honest neighborhood. I understand and excuse your feverish emotion, your natural indignation. As well as you, my friends, more than you—I cherished and esteemed the noble Count de Tremorel, and his virtuous wife. We mourn them together—”
“I assure you,” said Dr. Gendron to M. Plantat, “that the symptoms you describe are not uncommon after pleurisy. From the acute state, the inflammation passes to the chronic state, and becomes complicated with pneumonia.”
“But nothing,” pursued the mayor, “can justify a curiosity, which by its importunate attempts to be satisfied, embarrasses the investigation, and is, at all events, a punishable interference with the cause of justice. Why this unwonted gathering? Why these rumors and noises? These premature conjectures?”
“There were several consultations,” said M. Plantat, “which did not have favorable results. Sauvresy suffered altogether strange and unaccountable tortures. He complained of troubles so unwonted, so absurd, if you’ll excuse the word, that he discouraged all the conjectures of the most experienced physicians.”
“Was it not R——, of Paris, who attended him?”
“Exactly. He came daily, and often remained overnight. Many times I have seen him ascending the principal street of the village, with troubled countenance, as he went to give his prescription to the apothecary.
“Be wise enough,” cried M. Courtois, “to moderate your just anger; be calm; be dignified.”
“Surely,” continued Dr. Gendron, “your apothecary is an intelligent man; but you have at Orcival a fellow who quite outdoes him, a fellow who knows how to make money; one Robelot—”
“Robelot, the bone-setter?”
“That’s the man. I suspect him of giving consultations, and prescribing sub rosa. He is very clever. In fact I educated him. Five or six years ago, he was my laboratory boy, and even now I employ him when I have a delicate operation on hand—”
The doctor stopped, struck by the alteration in the impassible Plantat’s features.
“What is the matter, my friend?” he asked. “Are you ill?”
The judge left his notes, to look at him. “Why,” said he, “Monsieur Plantat is very pale—”
But M. Plantat speedily resumed his habitual expression.
“’Tis nothing,” he answered, “really nothing. With my abominable stomach, as soon as I change my hour of eating—”
Having reached his peroration, M. Courtois raised his voice.
“Return,” said he, “to your peaceable homes, your quiet avocations. Rest assured the law protects you. Already justice has begun its work; two of the criminals are in its power, and we are on the track of their accomplices.”
“Of all the servants of the chateau,” remarked M. Plantat, “there remains not one who knew Sauvresy. The domestics have one by one been replaced.”
“No doubt,” answered the doctor, “the sight of the old servants would be disagreeable to Monsieur de Tremorel.”
He was interrupted by the mayor, who re-entered, his eyes glowing, his face animated, wiping his forehead.
“I have let the people know,” said he, “the indecency of their curiosity. They have all gone away. They were anxious to get at Philippe Bertaud, the brigadier says; public opinion has a sharp scent.”
Hearing the door open, he turned, and found himself face to face with a man whose features were scarcely visible, so profoundly did he bow, his hat pressed against his breast.
“What do you wish?” sternly asked M. Courtois. “By what right have you come in here?—Who are you?”
The man drew himself up.
“I am Monsieur Lecoq,” he replied, with a gracious smile. “Monsieur Lecoq of the detective force, sent by the prefect of police in reply to a telegram, for this affair.”
This declaration clearly surprised all present, even the judge of instruction.
In France, each profession has its special externals, as it were, insignia, which betray it at first view. Each profession has its conventional type, and when public opinion has adopted a type, it does not admit it possible that the type should be departed from. What is a doctor? A grave man, all in black, with a white cravat. A gentleman with a capacious stomach, adorned with heavy gold seals, can only be a banker. Everybody knows that the artist is a merry liver, with
