LITMIR.BIZ

      Chapter VII

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      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 was then agreed that while the doctor proceeded to his autopsy, the judge should draw up his report of the case. M. Plantat was charged with watching Lecoq’s investigations.

      As soon as the detective found himself alone with M. Plantat:

      “Well,” he said, drawing a long breath, as if relieved of a heavy burden, “now we can get on.”

      Plantat smiled; the detective munched a lozenge, and added:

      “It was very annoying to find the investigation already going on when I reached here. Those who were here before me have had time to get up a theory, and if I don’t adopt it at once, there is the deuce to pay!”

      M. Domini’s voice was heard in the entry, calling out to his clerk.

      “Now there’s the judge of instruction,” continued Lecoq, “who thinks this a very simple affair; while I, Lecoq, the equal at least of Gevrol, the favorite pupil of Papa Tabaret—I do not see it at all clearly yet.”

      He stopped; and after apparently going over in his mind the result of his discoveries, went on: “No; I’m off the track, and have almost lost my way. I see something underneath all this—but what? what?”

      M. Plantat’s face remained placid, but his eyes shone.

      “Perhaps you are right,” said he, carelessly; “perhaps there is something underneath.” The detective looked at him; he didn’t stir. His face seemed the most undisturbed in the world. There was a long silence, by which M. Lecoq profited to confide to the portrait of the defunct the reflections which burdened his brain.

      “See here, my dear darling,” said he, “this worthy person seems a shrewd old customer, and I must watch his actions and gestures carefully. He does not argue with the judge; he’s got an idea that he doesn’t dare to tell, and we must find it out. At the very first he guessed me out, despite these pretty blond locks. As long as he thought he could, by misleading me, make me follow M. Domini’s tack, he followed and aided me showing me the way. Now that he sees me on the scent, he crosses his arms and retires. He wants to leave me the honor of the discovery. Why? He lives here—perhaps he is afraid of making enemies. No. He isn’t a man to fear much of anything. What then? He shrinks from his own thoughts. He has found something so amazing, that he dares not explain himself.”

      A sudden reflection changed the course of M. Lecoq’s confidences.

      “A thousand imps!” thought he. “Suppose I’m wrong! Suppose this old fellow is not shrewd at all! Suppose he hasn’t discovered anything, and only obeys the inspirations of chance! I’ve seen stranger things. I’ve known so many of these folks whose eyes seem so very mysterious, and announce such wonders; after all, I found nothing, and was cheated. But I intend to sound this old fellow well.”

      And, assuming his most idiotic manner, he said aloud:

      “On reflection, Monsieur, little remains to be done. Two of the principals are in custody, and when they make up their minds to talk—they’ll do it, sooner or later, if the judge is determined they shall—we shall know all.”

      A bucket of ice-water falling on M. Plantat’s head could not have surprised him more, or more disagreeably, than this speech.

      “What!” stammered he, with an air of frank amazement, “do you, a man of experience, who—”

      Delighted with the success of his ruse, Lecoq could not keep his countenance, and Plantat, who perceived that he had been caught in the snare, laughed heartily. Not a word, however, was exchanged between these two men, both subtle in the science of life, and equally cunning in its mysteries. They quite understood each other.

      “My worthy old buck,” said the detective to himself, “you’ve got something in your sack; only it’s so big, so monstrous, that you won’t exhibit it, not for a cannon-ball. You wish your hand forced, do you? Ve-ry well!”

      “He’s sly,” thought M. Plantat. “He knows that I’ve got an idea; he’s trying to get at it—and I believe he will.”

      M. Lecoq had restored his lozenge-box to his pocket, as he always did when he went seriously to work. His amour-propre was enlisted; he played a part—and he was a rare comedian.

      “Now,” cried he, “let’s to horse. According to the mayor’s account, the instrument with which all these things were broken has been found.”

      “In the room in the second story,” answered M. Plantat, “overlooking the garden, we found a hatchet on the floor, near a piece of furniture which had been assailed, but not

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