—I called him so, familiarly, this poor, dear count—gave his wife the tender attentions of a lover; those delicate cares, which I fear most married people soon dispense with.”
“And the countess?” asked M. Plantat, in a tone too marked not to be ironical.
“Bertha?” replied the worthy mayor—“she permitted me to call her thus, paternally—I have cited her many and many a time as an example and model, to Madame Courtois. She was worthy of Hector and of Sauvresy, the two most worthy men I have ever met!”
Then, perceiving that his enthusiasm somewhat surprised his hearers, he added, more softly:
“I have my reasons for expressing myself thus; and I do not hesitate to do so before men whose profession and character will justify my discretion. Sauvresy, when living, did me a great service—when I was forced to take the mayoralty. As for Hector, I knew well that he had departed—from the dissipations of his youth, and thought I discerned that he was not indifferent to my eldest daughter, Laurence; and I dreamed of a marriage all the more proper, as, if the Count Hector had a great name, I would give to my daughter a dowry large enough to gild any escutcheon. Only events modified my projects.”
The mayor would have gone on singing the praises of the Tremorels, and his own family, if the judge of instruction had not interposed.
“Here I am fixed,” he commenced, “now, it seems to me—”
He was interrupted by a loud noise in the vestibule. It seemed like a struggle, and cries and shouts reached the drawing-room. Everybody rose.
Chapter IV
The mayor was mistaken. The drawing-room door opened suddenly, and a man of slender form, who was struggling furiously, and with an energy which would not have been suspected, appeared, held on one side by a gendarme, and on the other by a domestic.
The struggle had already lasted long, and his clothes were in great disorder. His new coat was torn, his cravat floated in strips, the button of his collar had been wrenched off, and his open shirt left his breast bare. In the vestibule and court were heard the frantic cries of the servants and the curious crowd—of whom there were more than a hundred, whom the news of the crime had collected about the gate, and who burned to hear, and above all to see.
This enraged crowd cried:
“It is he! Death to the assassin! It is Guespin! See him!”
And the wretch, inspired by an immense fright, continued to struggle.
“Help!” shouted he hoarsely. “Leave me alone. I am innocent!”
He had posted himself against the drawing-room door, and they could not force him forward.
“Push him,” ordered the mayor, “push him.”
It was easier to command than to execute. Terror lent to Guespin enormous force. But it occurred to the doctor to open the second wing of the door; the support failed the wretch, and he fell, or rather rolled at the foot of the table at which the judge of instruction was seated. He was straightway on his feet again, and his eyes sought a chance to escape. Seeing none—for the windows and doors were crowded with the lookers-on—he fell into a chair. The fellow appeared the image of terror, wrought up to paroxysm. On his livid face, black and blue, were visible the marks of the blows he had received in the struggle; his white lips trembled, and he moved his jaws as if he sought a little saliva for his burning tongue; his staring eyes were bloodshot, and expressed the wildest distress; his body was bent with convulsive spasms. So terrible was this spectacle, that the mayor thought it might be an example of great moral force. He turned toward the crowd, and pointing to Guespin, said in a tragic tone:
“See what crime is!”
The others exchanged surprised looks.
“If he is guilty,” muttered M. Plantat, “why on earth has he returned?”
It was with difficulty that the crowd was kept back; the brigadier was forced to call in the aid of his men. Then he returned and placed himself beside Guespin, thinking it not prudent to leave him alone with unarmed men.
But the man was little to be feared. The reaction came; his over-excited energy became exhausted, his strained muscles flaccid, and his prostration resembled the agony of brain fever. Meanwhile the brigadier recounted what had happened.
“Some of the servants of the chateau and the neighboring houses were chatting near the gate, about the crime, and the disappearance of Guespin last night, when all of a sudden, someone perceived him at a distance, staggering, and singing boisterously, as if he were drunk.”
“Was he really drunk?” asked M. Domini.
“Very,” returned the brigadier.
“Then we owe it to the wine that we have caught him, and thus all will be explained.”
“On perceiving this wretch,” pursued the gendarme, who seemed not to have the shadow of a doubt of Guespin’s guilt, “Francois, the count’s valet de chambre, and Baptiste, the mayor’s servant, who were there, hastened to meet him, and seized him. He was so tipsy that he thought they were fooling with him. When he saw my men, he was undeceived. Just then one of the women cried out, ’Brigand, it was you who have this night assassinated the count and the countess!’ He immediately became paler than death, and remained motionless and dumb. Then he began to struggle so violently that he nearly escaped. Ah! he’s strong, the rogue, although he does not look like it.”
“And he said nothing?” said Plantat.
“Not a word; his teeth were so tightly shut with rage that I’m sure he couldn’t say ‘bread.’ But we’ve got him. I’ve searched him, and this is what I have found in his pockets: a handkerchief, a pruning-knife, two small keys, a scrap of paper covered with figures, and an address of the establishment of ‘Vulcan’s Forges.’ But that’s not all—”
The brigadier took a step, and eyed his auditors mysteriously; he was preparing his effect.
“That’s not all. While they were bringing him along in the court-yard, he tried to get rid of his wallet. Happily I had my eyes open, and saw the dodge. I picked up the wallet, which he had thrown among the flowers near the door; here it is. In it are a one-hundred-franc note, three napolйons, and seven francs in change. Yesterday the rascal hadn’t a sou—”
“How do you know that?” asked M. Domini.
“Dame! Monsieur Judge, he borrowed of the valet Francois (who told me of it) twenty-five francs, pretending that it was to pay his share of the wedding expenses.”
“Tell Francois to come here,” said the judge of instruction. “Now, sir,” he continued, when the valet presented himself, “do you know whether Guespin had any money yesterday?”
“He had so little, Monsieur,” answered Francois promptly, “that he asked me to lend him twenty-five francs during the day, saying that otherwise he could not go to the wedding, not having enough even to pay his railway fare.”
“But he might have some savings—a hundred-franc
