Hearing M. Plantat’s question, he turned.
“I have found nothing decisive,” answered he, “and I have found nothing to refute my conjectures. But—”
He did not finish; perhaps he too, recoiled before his share of the responsibility.
“What?” insisted M. Domini, sternly.
“I was going to say,” resumed M. Lecoq, “that I am not yet satisfied. I have my lantern and a candle in it; I only need a match—”
“Please preserve your decorum,” interrupted the judge severely.
“Very well, then,” continued M. Lecoq, in a tone too humble to be serious, “I still hesitate. If the doctor, now, would kindly proceed to examine the countess’s body, he would do me a great service.”
“I was just going to ask the same favor, Doctor,” said M. Domini.
The doctor answering, “Willingly,” directed his steps toward the door.
M. Lecoq caught him by the arm.
“If you please,” said he, in a tone totally unlike that he had used up to this time, “I would like to call your attention to the wounds on the head, made by a blunt instrument, which I suppose to be a hammer. I have studied these wounds, and though I am no doctor, they seem to me suspicious.”
“And to me,” M. Plantat quickly added. “It seemed to me, that in the places struck, there was no emission of blood in the cutaneous vessels.”
“The nature of these wounds,” continued M. Lecoq, “will be a valuable indication, which will fix my opinion.” And, as he felt keenly the brusque manner of the judge, he added:
“It is you, Doctor, who hold the match.”
M. Gendron was about to leave the room, when Baptiste, the mayor’s servant—the man who wouldn’t be scolded—appeared. He bowed and said:
“I have come for Monsieur the Mayor.”
“For me? why?” asked M. Courtois. “What’s the matter? They don’t give me a minute’s rest! Answer that I am busy.”
“It’s on account of madame,” resumed the placid Baptiste; “she isn’t at all well.” The excellent mayor grew slightly pale.
“My wife!” cried he, alarmed. “What do you mean? Explain yourself.”
“The postman arrived just now,” returned Baptiste with a most tranquil air, “and I carried the letters to madame, who was in the drawing-room. Hardly had I turned on my heels when I heard a shriek, and the noise of someone falling to the floor.” Baptiste spoke slowly, taking artful pains to prolong his master’s anguish.
“Speak! go on!” cried the mayor, exasperated. “Speak, won’t you?”
“I naturally opened the drawing-room door again. What did I see? madame, at full length on the floor. I called for help; the chambermaid, cook, and others came hastening up, and we carried madame to her bed. Justine said that it was a letter from Mademoiselle Laurence which overcame my mistress—”
At each word Baptiste hesitated, reflected; his eyes, giving the lie to his solemn face, betrayed the great satisfaction he felt in relating his master’s misfortunes.
His master was full of consternation. As it is with all of us, when we know not exactly what ill is about to befall us, he dared not ask any questions. He stood still, crushed; lamenting, instead of hastening home. M. Plantat profited by the pause to question the servant, with a look which Baptiste dared not disobey.
“What, a letter from Mademoiselle Laurence? Isn’t she here, then?”
“No, sir: she went away a week ago, to pass a month with one of her aunts.”
“And how is madame?”
“Better, sir; only she cries piteously.”
The unfortunate mayor had now somewhat recovered his presence of mind. He seized Baptiste by the arm.
“Come along,” cried he, “come along!”
They hastened off.
“Poor man!” said the judge of instruction. “Perhaps his daughter is dead.”
M. Plantat shook his head.
“If it were only that!” muttered he. He added, turning to M. Domini:
Chapter VII
The judge of instruction, the doctor, and M. Plantat exchanged a significant look. What misfortune had befallen M. Courtois, this worthy, and despite his faults, excellent person? Decidedly, this was an ill-omened day!
“If we are to speak of Bertaud’s allusions,” said M. Lecoq, “I have heard two very curious stories, though I have been here but a few hours. It seems that this Mademoiselle Laurence—”
M. Plantat abruptly interrupted the detective.
“Calumnies! odious calumnies! The lower classes, to annoy the rich, do not hesitate to say all sorts of things against them. Don’t you know it? Is it not always so? The gentry, above all, those of a provincial town, live in glass houses. The lynx eyes of envy watch them steadily night and day, spy on them, surprise what they regard as their most secret actions to arm themselves against them. The bourgeois goes on, proud and content; his business prospers; he possesses the esteem and friendship of his own class; all this while, he is vilified by the lower classes, his name dragged in the dust, soiled by suppositions the most mischievous. Envy, Monsieur, respects nothing, no one.”
“If Laurence has been slandered,” observed Dr. Gendron, smiling, “she has a good advocate to defend her.”
The old justice of the peace (the man of bronze, as M. Courtois called him) blushed slightly, a little embarrassed.
“There are causes,” said he, quietly, “which defend themselves. Mademoiselle Courtois is one of those young girls who has a right to all respect. But there are evils which no laws can cure, and which revolt me. Think of it, monsieurs, our reputations, the honor of our wives and daughters, are at the mercy of the first petty rascal who has imagination enough to invent a slander. It is not believed, perhaps; but it is repeated, and spreads. What can be done? How can we know what is secretly said against us; will we ever know it?”
“Eh!” replied the doctor, “what matters it? There is only one voice, to my mind, worth listening to—that of conscience. As to what is called ‘public opinion,’ as it is the aggregate opinion of thousands of fools and rogues, I only despise it.”
This discussion might have been prolonged, if the judge of instruction had not pulled out his watch, and made an impatient gesture.
“While we are talking, time is flying,” said he. “We must hasten to the work that still remains.”
It
