LITMIR.BIZ

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broken. It was by using Laurence’s name that he persuaded Bertha not to kill herself. Yet he knew of Tremorel’s passion for her, he knew her love for him, and he knew that his friend was capable of anything. He, who had so well foreseen all that could serve his vengeance, did not deign to foresee that Laurence might be dishonored; and yet he left her disarmed before this most cowardly and infamous of men!”

      The detective reflected.

      “There is one thing,” said he, “that I can’t explain. Why was it that these two, who execrated each other, and whom the implacable will of their victim chained together despite themselves, did not separate of one accord the day after their marriage, when they had fulfilled the condition which had established their crime?”

      The old justice of the peace shook his head.

      “I see,” he answered, “that I have not yet made you understand Bertha’s resolute character. Hector would have been delighted with a separation; his wife could not consent to it. Ah, Sauvresy knew her well! She saw her life ruined, a horrible remorse lacerated her; she must have a victim upon whom to expiate her errors and crimes; this victim was Hector. Ravenous for her prey, she would not let him go for anything in the world.”

      “I’ faith,” observed Dr. Gendron, “your Tremorel was a chicken-hearted wretch. What had he to fear when Sauvresy’s manuscript was once destroyed?”

      “Who told you it had been destroyed?” interrupted M. Plantat.

      M. Lecoq at this stopped promenading up and down the room, and sat down opposite M. Plantat.

      “The whole case lies there,” said he. “Whether these proofs have or have not been destroyed.”

      M. Plantat did not choose to answer directly.

      “Do you know,” asked he, “to whom Sauvresy confided them for keeping?”

      “Ah,” cried the detective, as if a sudden idea had enlightened him, “it was you.”

      He added to himself, “Now, my good man, I begin to see where all your information comes from.”

      “Yes, it was I,” resumed M. Plantat. “On the day of the marriage of Madame Sauvresy and Count Hector, in conformity with the last wishes of my dying friend, I went to Valfeuillu and asked to see Monsieur and Madame de Tremorel. Although they were full of company, they received me at once in the little room on the ground-floor where Sauvresy was murdered. They were both very pale and terribly troubled. They evidently guessed the purpose of my visit, for they lost no time in admitting me to an interview. After saluting them I addressed myself to Bertha, being enjoined to do so by the written instructions I had received; this was another instance of Sauvresy’s foresight. ‘Madame,’ said I, ’I was charged by your late husband to hand to you, on the day of your second marriage, this package, which he confided to my care.’ She took the package, in which the bottle and the manuscript were enclosed, with a smiling, even joyous air, thanked me warmly, and went out. The count’s expression instantly changed; he appeared very restless and agitated; he seemed to be on coals. I saw well enough that he burned to rush after his wife, but dared not; I was going to retire; but he stopped me. ‘Pardon me,’ said he, abruptly, ’you will permit me, will you not? I will return immediately,’ with which he ran out. When I saw him and his wife a few minutes afterward, they were both very red; their eyes had a strange expression and their voices trembled, as they accompanied me to the door. They had certainly been having a violent altercation.”

      “The rest may be conjectured,” interrupted M. Lecoq. “She had gone to secrete the manuscript in some safe place; and when her new husband asked her to give it up to him, she replied, ‘Look for it.’”

      “Sauvresy had enjoined on me to give it only into her hands.”

      “Oh, he knew how to work his revenge. He had it given to his wife so that she might hold a terrible arm against Tremorel, all ready to crush him. If he revolted, she always had this instrument of torture at hand. Ah, the man was a miserable wretch, and she must have made him suffer terribly.”

      “Yes,” said Dr. Gendron, “up to the very day he killed her.”

      The detective had resumed his promenade up and down the library.

      “The question as to the poison,” said he, “remains. It is a simple one to resolve, because we’ve got the man who sold it to her in that closet.”

      “Besides,” returned the doctor, “I can tell something about the poison. This rascal of a Robelot stole it from my laboratory, and I know only too well what it is, even if the symptoms, so well described by our friend Plantat, had not indicated its name to me. I was at work upon aconite when Sauvresy died; and he was poisoned with aconitine.”

      “Ah, with aconitine,” said M. Lecoq, surprised. “It’s the first time that I ever met with that poison. Is it a new thing?”

      “Not exactly. Medea is said to have extracted her deadliest poisons from aconite, and it was employed in Rome and Greece in criminal executions.”

      “And I did not know of it! But I have very little time to study. Besides, this poison of Medea’s was perhaps lost, as was that of the Borgias; so many of these things are!”

      “No, it was not lost, be assured. But we only know of it nowadays by Mathiole’s experiments on felons sentenced to death, in the sixteenth century; by Hers, who isolated the active principle, the alkaloid, in 1833 and lastly by certain experiments made by Bouchardat, who pretends—”

      Unfortunately, when Dr. Gendron was set agoing on poisons, it was difficult to stop him; but M. Lecoq, on the other hand, never lost sight of the end he had in view.

      “Pardon me for interrupting you, Doctor,” said he. “But would traces of aconitine be found in a body which had been two years buried? For Monsieur Domini is going to order the exhumation of Sauvresy.”

      “The tests of aconitine are not sufficiently well known to permit of the isolation of it in a body. Bouchardat tried ioduret of potassium, but his experiment was not successful.”

      “The deuce!” said M. Lecoq. “That’s annoying.”

      The doctor smiled benignly.

      “Reassure yourself,” said he. “No such process was in existence —so I invented one.”

      “Ah,” cried Plantat. “Your sensitive paper!”

      “Precisely.”

      “And could you find aconitine in Sauvresy’s body?”

      “Undoubtedly.”

      M. Lecoq was radiant, as if he were now certain of fulfilling what had seemed to him a very difficult task.

      “Very well,” said he. “Our inquest seems to be complete. The history of the victims imparted to us by Monsieur Plantat gives us the key to all the events which have followed the unhappy Sauvresy’s death. Thus, the hatred of this pair, who were in appearance so united, is explained; and it is also clear why Hector has ruined a charming young girl with a splendid dowry, instead of making her his wife. There is nothing surprising in Tremorel’s casting aside his name and personality to reappear under another guise; he killed his wife because he was constrained to do so by the logic of events. He could not fly while she was alive, and yet he could not continue to live at Valfeuillu. And above all, the paper for which he searched with such desperation, when every moment was an affair of life and death to him, was none other than Sauvresy’s manuscript, his condemnation and the proof of his first crime.”

      M. Lecoq talked eagerly, as if he had a personal animosity against the Count de Tremorel; such was his nature; and he always avowed laughingly that he could not help having a grudge against the criminals whom he pursued. There was an account to settle between him and them; hence the ardor of his pursuit. Perhaps it was a simple matter of instinct with him, like that which impels the hunting hound on the track of his game.

      “It is clear enough now,” he went on, “that it was Mademoiselle Courtois who put an

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