letter,” cried he, “which has plunged her family into the deepest grief, and which will perhaps kill poor Courtois, is only one more scene of the infamous drama which the count has planned.”
“Oh,” said the doctor, “is it possible?”
“I am firmly of Monsieur Plantat’s opinion,” said the detective. “Last evening we had the same suspicion at the same moment at the mayor’s. I read and re-read her letter, and could have sworn that it did not emanate from herself. The count gave her a rough draft from which she copied it. We mustn’t deceive ourselves; this letter was meditated, pondered on, and composed at leisure. Those were not the expressions of an unhappy young girl of twenty who was going to kill herself to escape dishonor.”
“Perhaps you are right,” remarked the doctor visibly moved. “But how can you imagine that Tremorel succeeded in persuading her to do this wretched act?”
“How? See here, Doctor, I am not much experienced in such things, having seldom had occasion to study the characters of well-brought-up young girls; yet it seems to me very simple. Mademoiselle Courtois saw the time coming when her disgrace would be public, and so prepared for it, and was even ready to die if necessary.”
M. Plantat shuddered; a conversation which he had had with Laurence occurred to him. She had asked him, he remembered, about certain poisonous plants which he was cultivating, and had been anxious to know how the poisonous juices could be extracted from them.
“Yes,” said he, “she has thought of dying.”
“Well,” resumed the detective, “the count took her in one of the moods when these sad thoughts haunted the poor girl, and was easily able to complete his work of ruin. She undoubtedly told him that she preferred death to shame, and he proved to her that, being in the condition in which she was, she had no right to kill herself. He said that he was very unhappy; and that not being free, he could not repair his fault; but he offered to sacrifice his life for her. What should she do to save both of them? Abandon her parents, make them believe that she had committed suicide, while he, on his side, would desert his house and his wife. Doubtless she resisted for awhile; but she finally consented to everything; she fled, and copied and posted the infamous letter dictated by her lover.”
The doctor was convinced.
“Yes,” he muttered, “those are doubtless the means he employed.”
“But what an idiot he was,” resumed M. Lecoq, “not to perceive that the strange coincidence between his disappearance and Laurence’s suicide would be remarked! He said to himself, ’Probably people will think that I, as well as my wife, have been murdered; and the law, having its victim in Guespin, will not look for any other.’”
M. Plantat made a gesture of impotent rage.
“Ah,” cried he, “and we know not where the wretch has hid himself and Laurence.”
The detective took him by the arm and pressed it.
“Reassure yourself,” said he, coolly. “We’ll find him, or my name’s not Lecoq; and to be honest, I must say that our task does not seem to me a difficult one.”
Several timid knocks at the door interrupted the speaker. It was late, and the household was already awake and about. Mme. Petit in her anxiety and curiosity had put her ear to the key-hole at least ten times, but in vain.
“What can they be up to in there?” said she to Louis. “Here they’ve been shut up these twelve hours without eating or drinking. At all events I’ll get breakfast.”
It was not Mme. Petit, however, who dared to knock on the door; but Louis, the gardener, who came to tell his master of the ravages which had been made in his flower-pots and shrubs. At the same time he brought in certain singular articles which he had picked up on the sward, and which M. Lecoq recognized at once.
“Heavens!” cried he, “I forgot myself. Here I go on quietly talking with my face exposed, as if it was not broad daylight; and people might come in at any moment!” And turning to Louis, who was very much surprised to see this dark young man whom he had certainly not admitted the night before, he added:
“Give me those little toilet articles, my good fellow; they belong to me.”
Then, by a turn of his hand, he readjusted his physiognomy of last night, while the master of the house went out to give some orders, which M. Lecoq did so deftly, that when M. Plantat returned, he could scarcely believe his eyes.
They sat down to breakfast and ate their meal as silently as they had done the dinner of the evening before, losing no time about it. They appreciated the value of the passing moments; M. Domini was waiting for them at Corbeil, and was doubtless getting impatient at their delay.
Louis had just placed a sumptuous dish of fruit upon the table, when it occurred to M. Lecoq that Robelot was still shut up in the closet.
“Probably the rascal needs something,” said he.
M. Plantat wished to send his servant to him; but M. Lecoq objected.
“He’s a dangerous rogue,” said he. “I’ll go myself.”
He went out, but almost instantly his voice was heard:
“Messieurs! Messieurs, see here!”
The doctor and M. Plantat hastened into the library.
Chapter XXII
Robelot must have had rare presence of mind and courage to kill himself in that obscure closet, without making enough noise to arouse the attention of those in the library. He had wound a string tightly around his neck, and had used a piece of pencil as a twister, and so had strangled himself. He did not, however, betray the hideous look which the popular belief attributes to those who have died by strangulation. His face was pale, his eyes and mouth half open, and he had the appearance of one who has gradually and without much pain lost his consciousness by congestion of the brain.
“Perhaps he is not quite dead yet,” said the doctor. He quickly pulled out his case of instruments and knelt beside the motionless body.
This incident seemed to annoy M. Lecoq very much; just as everything was, as he said, “running on wheels,” his principal witness, whom he had caught at the peril of his life, had escaped him. M. Plantat, on the contrary, seemed tolerably well satisfied, as if the death of Robelot furthered projects which he was secretly nourishing, and fulfilled his secret hopes. Besides, it little mattered if the object was to oppose M. Domini’s theories and induce him to change his opinion. This corpse had more eloquence in it than the most explicit of confessions.
The doctor, seeing the uselessness of his pains, got up.
“It’s all over,” said he. “The asphyxia was accomplished in a very few moments.”
The bone-setter’s body was carefully laid on the floor in the library.
“There is nothing more to be done,” said M. Plantat, “but to carry him home; we will follow on so as to seal up his effects, which perhaps contain important papers. Run to the mairie,” he added, turning
