She was no longer the fresh and pretty minx whom Hector had known —the provoking large-eyed Parisian demoiselle, with haughty head and petulant grace. A single year had withered her, as a too hot summer does the roses, and had destroyed her fragile beauty beyond recall. She was not twenty, and still it was hard to discern that she had been charming, and was yet young. For she had grown old like vice; her worn features and hollow cheeks betrayed the dissipations of her life; her eyes had lost their long, languishing lids; her mouth had a pitiful expression of stupefaction; and absinthe had broken the clear tone of her voice. She was richly dressed in a new robe, with a great deal of lace and a jaunty hat; yet she had a wretched expression; she was all besmeared with rouge and paint.
When she came in she seemed very angry.
“What an idea!” she cried, without taking the trouble to bow to anyone; “what sense is there in sending for me to come here in this way, almost by force, and by a very impudent young woman?”
Mme. Charman hastened to meet her old customer, embraced her in spite of herself, and pressed her to her heart.
“Why, don’t be so angry, dear—I thought you would be delighted and overwhelm me with thanks.”
“I? What for?”
“Because, my dear girl, I had a surprise in store for you. Ah, I’m not ungrateful; you came here yesterday and settled your account with me, and to-day I mean to reward you for it. Come, cheer up; you’re going to have a splendid chance, because just at this moment I happen to have a piece of exquisite velvet—”
“A pretty thing to bring me here for!”
“All silk, my dear, at thirty francs the yard. Ha, ’tis wonderfully cheap, the best—”
“Eh! What care I for your ‘chance?’ Velvet in July—are you making fun of me?”
“Let me show it to you, now.”
“Never! I am expected to dinner at Asniиres, and so—”
She was about to go away despite Mme. Charman’s attempts to detain her, when M. Lecoq thought it was time to interfere.
“Why, am I mistaken?” cried he, as if amazed; “is it really Miss Jenny whom I have the honor of seeing?”
She scanned him with a half-angry, half-surprised air, and said:
“Yes, it is I; what of it?”
“What! Are you so forgetful? Don’t you recognize me?”
“No, not at all.”
“Yet I was one of your admirers once, my dear, and used to breakfast with you when you lived near the Madeleine; in the count’s time, you know.”
He took off his spectacles as if to wipe them, but really to launch a furious look at Mme. Charman, who, not daring to resist, beat a hasty retreat.
“I knew Tremorel well in other days,” resumed the detective. “And —by the bye, have you heard any news of him lately?”
“I saw him about a week ago.”
“Stop, though—haven’t you heard of that horrible affair?”
“No. What was it?”
“Really, now, haven’t you heard? Don’t you read the papers? It was a dreadful thing, and has been the talk of all Paris for the past forty-eight hours.”
“Tell me about it, quick!”
“You know that he married the widow of one of his friends. He was thought to be very happy at home; not at all; he has murdered his wife with a knife.”
Jenny grew pale under her paint.
“Is it possible?” stammered she. She seemed much affected, but not very greatly surprised, which M. Lecoq did not fail to remark.
“It is so possible,” he resumed, “that he is at this moment in prison, will soon be tried, and without a doubt will be convicted.”
M. Plantat narrowly observed Jenny; he looked for an explosion of despair, screams, tears, at least a light nervous attack; he was mistaken.
Jenny now detested Tremorel. Sometimes she felt the weight of her degradation, and she accused Hector of her present ignominy. She heartily hated him, though she smiled when she saw him, got as much money out of him as she could, and cursed him behind his back. Instead of bursting into tears, she therefore laughed aloud.
“Well done for Tremorel,” said she. “Why did he leave me? Good for her too.”
“Why so?”
“What did she deceive her husband for? It was she who took Hector from me—she, a rich, married woman! But I’ve always said Hector was a poor wretch.”
“Frankly, that’s my notion too. When a man acts as Tremorel has toward you, he’s a villain.”
“It’s so, isn’t it?”
“Parbleu! But I’m not surprised at his conduct. For his wife’s murder is the least of his crimes; why, he tried to put it off upon somebody else!”
“That doesn’t surprise me.”
“He accused a poor devil as innocent as you or I, who might have been condemned to death if he hadn’t been able to tell where he was on Wednesday night.”
M. Lecoq said this lightly, with intended deliberation, so as to watch the impression he produced on Jenny.
“Do you know who the man was?” asked she in a tremulous voice.
“The papers said it was a poor lad who was his gardener.”
“A little man, wasn’t he, thin, very dark, with black hair?”
“Just so.”
“And whose name was—wait now—was—Guespin.”
“Ah ha, you know him then?”
Jenny hesitated. She was trembling very much, and evidently regretted that she had gone so far.
“Bah!” said she at last. “I don’t see why I shouldn’t tell what I know. I’m an honest girl, if Tremorel is a rogue; and I don’t want them to condemn a poor wretch who is innocent.”
“You know something about it, then?”
“Well, I know nearly all about it—that’s honest, ain’t it? About a week ago Hector wrote to me to meet him at Melun; I went, found him, and we breakfasted together. Then he told me that he was very much annoyed about his cook’s marriage; for one of his servants was deeply in love with her, and might go and raise a rumpus at the wedding.”
“Ah, he spoke to you about the wedding, then?”
“Wait a minute. Hector seemed very much embarrassed, not knowing how to avoid the disturbance he feared. Then I advised him to send the servant off out of
