as a magistrate he was equally obstinate, but was at the same time ready to make any sacrifice of his self-esteem if the voice of duty prompted it. M. Lecoq’s arguments had not shaken his convictions, but they imposed on him the duty of informing himself at once, and to either conquer the detective or avow himself conquered.
“You seem to be pleading,” said he to M. Lecoq. “There is no need of that here. We are not counsel and judge; the same honorable intentions animate us both. Each, in his sphere, is searching after the truth. You think you see it shining where I only discern clouds; and you may be mistaken as well as I.”
Then by an act of heroism, he condescended to add:
“What do you think I ought to do?”
The judge was at least rewarded for the effort he made by approving glances from M. Plantat and the doctor. But M. Lecoq did not hasten to respond; he had many weighty reasons to advance; that, he saw, was not what was necessary. He ought to present the facts, there and at once, and produce one of those proofs which can be touched with the finger. How should he do it? His active mind searched eagerly for such a proof.
“Well?” insisted M. Domini.
“Ah,” cried the detective. “Why can’t I ask Guespin two or three questions?”
The judge frowned; the suggestion seemed to him rather presumptuous. It is formally laid down that the questioning of the accused should be done in secret, and by the judge alone, aided by his clerk. On the other hand it is decided, that after he has once been interrogated he may be confronted with witnesses. There are, besides, exceptions in favor of the members of the police force. M. Domini reflected whether there were any precedents to apply to the case.
“I don’t know,” he answered at last, “to what point the law permits me to consent to what you ask. However, as I am convinced the interests of truth outweigh all rules, I shall take it on myself to let you question Guespin.”
He rang; a bailiff appeared.
“Has Guespin been carried back to prison?”
“Not yet, Monsieur.”
“So much the better; have him brought in here.”
M. Lecoq was beside himself with joy; he had not hoped to achieve such a victory over one so determined as M. Domini.
“He will speak now,” said he, so full of confidence that his eyes shone, and he forgot the portrait of the dear defunct, “for I have three means of unloosening his tongue, one of which is sure to succeed. But before he comes I should like to know one thing. Do you know whether Tremorel saw Jenny after Sauvresy’s death?”
“Jenny?” asked M. Plantat, a little surprised.
“Yes.”
“Certainly he did.”
“Several times?”
“Pretty often. After the scene at the Belle Image the poor girl plunged into terrible dissipation. Whether she was smitten with remorse, or understood that it was her conduct which had killed Sauvresy, or suspected the crime, I don’t know. She began, however, to drink furiously, falling lower and lower every week—”
“And the count really consented to see her again?”
“He was forced to do so; she tormented him, and he was afraid of her. When she had spent all her money she sent to him for more, and he gave it. Once he refused; and that very evening she went to him the worse for wine, and he had the greatest difficulty in the world to send her away again. In short, she knew what his relations with Madame Sauvresy had been, and she threatened him; it was a regular black-mailing operation. He told me all about the trouble she gave him, and added that he would not be able to get rid of her without shutting her up, which he could not bring himself to do.”
“How long ago was their last interview?”
“Why,” answered the doctor, “not three weeks ago, when I had a consultation at Melun, I saw the count and this demoiselle at a hotel window; when he saw me he suddenly drew back.”
“Then,” said the detective, “there is no longer any doubt—”
He stopped. Guespin came in between two gendarmes.
The unhappy gardener had aged twenty years in twenty-four hours. His eyes were haggard, his dry lips were bordered with foam.
“Let us see,” said the judge. “Have you changed your mind about speaking?”
The prisoner did not answer.
“Have you decided to tell us about yourself?”
Guespin’s rage made him tremble from head to foot, and his eyes became fiery.
“Speak!” said he hoarsely. “Why should I?”
He added with the gesture of a desperate man who abandons himself, renounces all struggling and all hope:
“What have I done to you, my God, that you torture me this way? What do you want me to say? That I did this crime—is that what you want? Well, then—yes—it was I. Now you are satisfied. Now cut my head off, and do it quick—for I don’t want to suffer any longer.”
A mournful silence welcomed Guespin’s declaration. What, he confessed it!
M. Domini had at least the good taste not to exult; he kept still, and yet this avowal surprised him beyond all expression.
M. Lecoq alone, although surprised, was not absolutely put out of countenance. He approached Guespin and tapping him on the shoulder, said in a paternal tone:
“Come, comrade, what you are telling us is absurd. Do you think the judge has any secret grudge against you? No, eh? Do you suppose I am interested to have you guillotined? Not at all. A crime has been committed, and we are trying to find the assassin. If you are innocent, help us to find the man who isn’t: What were you doing from Wednesday evening till Thursday morning?”
But Guespin persisted in his ferocious and stupid obstinacy.
“I’ve said what I have to say,” said he.
M. Lecoq changed his tone to one of severity, stepping back to watch the effect he was about to produce upon Guespin.
“You haven’t any right to hold your tongue. And even if you do, you fool, the police know everything. Your master sent you on an errand, didn’t he, on Wednesday night; what did he give you? A one-thousand-franc note?”
The prisoner looked at M. Lecoq in speechless amazement.
“No,” he stammered. “It was a five-hundred-franc note.”
The detective, like all great artists in a critical scene, was really moved. His surprising genius for investigation had just inspired him with a bold stroke, which, if it succeeded, would assure him the victory.
“Now,” said he, “tell me the woman’s name.”
“I don’t know.”
“You are only a fool then. She is short,
