haven’t you any money?”
“Well—no, my chief.”
“Then take this five-hundred-franc note; that’s more than is necessary to make the tour of the world. Do you comprehend everything?”
“I beg your pardon—what shall I do if Monsieur Wilson simply returns to his house?”
“In that case I will finish with him. If he returns, you will come back with him, and the moment his cab stops before the house give two loud whistles, you know. Then wait for me in the street, taking care to retain your cab, which you will lend to Monsieur Plantat if he needs it.”
“All right,” said Palot, who hastened off without more ado.
M. Plantat and the detective, left alone, began to walk up and down the gallery; both were grave and silent, as men are at a decisive moment; there is no chatting about a gaming-table. M. Lecoq suddenly started; he had just seen his agent at the end of the gallery. His impatience was so great that he ran toward him, saying:
“Well?”
“Monsieur, the game has flown, and Palot after him!”
“On foot or in a cab?”
“In a cab.”
“Enough. Return to your comrades, and tell them to hold themselves ready.”
Everything was going as Lecoq wished, and he grasped the old justice’s hand, when he was struck by the alteration in his features.
“What, are you ill?” asked he, anxiously.
“No, but I am fifty-five years old, Monsieur Lecoq, and at that age there are emotions which kill one. Look, I am trembling at the moment when I see my wishes being realized, and I feel as if a disappointment would be the death of me. I’m afraid, yes, I’m afraid. Ah, why can’t I dispense with following you?”
“But your presence is indispensable; without your help I can do nothing:”
“What could I do?”
“Save Laurence, Monsieur Plantat.”
This name restored a part of his courage.
“If that is so—” said he. He began to walk firmly toward the street, but M. Lecoq stopped him.
“Not yet,” said the detective, “not yet; the battle now depends on the precision of our movements. A single fault miserably upsets all my combinations, and then I shall be forced to arrest and deliver up the criminal. We must have a ten minutes’ interview with Mademoiselle Laurence, but not much more, and it is absolutely necessary that this interview should be suddenly interrupted by Tremorel’s return. Let’s make our calculations. It will take the rascal half an hour to go to the Rue des Saints-Peres, where he will find nobody; as long to get back; let us throw in fifteen minutes as a margin; in all, an hour and a quarter. There are forty minutes left us.”
M. Plantat did not reply, but his companion said that he could not stay so long on his feet after the fatigues of the day, agitated as he was, and having eaten nothing since the evening before. He led him into a neighboring cafe, and forced him to eat a biscuit and drink a glass of wine. Then seeing that conversation would be annoying to the unhappy old man, he took up an evening paper and soon seemed to be absorbed in the latest news from Germany. The old justice, his head leaning on the back of his chair and his eyes wandering over the ceiling, passed in mental review the events of the past four years. It seemed to him but yesterday that Laurence, still a child, ran up his garden-path and picked his roses and honeysuckles. How pretty she was, and how divine were her great eyes! Then, as it seemed, between dusk and dawn, as a rose blooms on a June night, the pretty child had become a sweet and radiant young girl. She was timid and reserved with all but him—was he not her old friend, the confidant of all her little griefs and her innocent hopes? How frank and pure she was then; what a heavenly ignorance of evil!
Nine o’clock struck; M. Lecoq laid down his paper.
“Let us go,” said he.
M. Plantat followed him with a firmer step, and they soon reached M. Wilson’s house, accompanied by Job and his men.
“You men,” said M. Lecoq, “wait till I call before you go in; I will leave the door ajar.”
He rang; the door swung open; and M. Plantat and the detective went in under the arch. The porter was on the threshold of his lodge.
“Monsieur Wilson?” asked M. Lecoq.
“He is out.”
“I will speak to Madame, then.”
“She is also out.”
“Very well. Only, as I must positively speak with Madame Wilson, I’m going upstairs.”
The porter seemed about to resist him by force; but, as Lecoq now called in his men, he thought better of it and kept quiet.
M. Lecoq posted six of his men in the court, in such a position that they could be easily seen from the windows on the first floor, and instructed the others to place themselves on the opposite sidewalk, telling them to look ostentatiously at the house. These measures taken, he returned to the porter.
“Attend to me, my man. When your master, who has gone out, comes in again, beware that you don’t tell him that we are upstairs; a single word would get you into terribly hot water—”
“I am blind,” he answered, “and deaf.”
“How many servants are there in the house?”
“Three; but they have all gone out.”
The detective then took M. Plantat by the arm, and holding him firmly:
Chapter XXVII
All M. Lecoq’s anticipations were realized. Laurence was not dead, and her letter to her parents was an odious trick. It was really she who lived in the house as Mme. Wilson. How had the lovely young girl, so much beloved by the old justice, come to such a dreadful extremity? The logic of life, alas, fatally enchains all our determinations to each other. Often an indifferent action, little wrongful in itself, is the beginning of an atrocious crime. Each of our new resolutions depends upon those which have preceded it, and is their logical sequence just as the sum-total is the product of the added figures. Woe to him who, being seized with a dizziness at the brink of the abyss, does not fly as fast as possible, without turning his head; for soon, yielding to an irresistible attraction, he approaches, braves the danger, slips, and is lost. Whatever thereafter he does or attempts he will roll down the faster, until he reaches the very bottom of the gulf.
Tremorel had by no means the implacable character of an assassin; he was only feeble and cowardly; yet he had committed abominable crimes. All his guilt came from the first feeling of envy with which he regarded Sauvresy, and which he had not taken the pains to subdue. Laurence, when, on the day that she became enamoured of Tremorel, she permitted him to press her hand, and kept it from her mother, was lost. The
