L'affaire Lerouge. English

  CHAPTER XIV.

  Old Tabaret did not consider himself defeated, because he had beenrepulsed by the investigating magistrate, already irritated by a longday's examination. You may call it a fault, or an accomplishment; butthe old man was more obstinate than a mule. To the excess of despair towhich he succumbed in the passage outside the magistrate's office, theresoon succeeded that firm resolution which is the enthusiasm called forthby danger. The feeling of duty got the upper hand. Was it a time toyield to unworthy despair, when the life of a fellow-man depended oneach minute? Inaction would be unpardonable. He had plunged an innocentman into the abyss; and he must draw him out, he alone, if no one wouldhelp him. Old Tabaret, as well as the magistrate, was greatly fatigued.On reaching the open air, he perceived that he, too, was in want offood. The emotions of the day had prevented him from feeling hungry;and, since the previous evening, he had not even taken a glass of water.He entered a restaurant on the Boulevard, and ordered dinner.

  While eating, not only his courage, but also his confidence cameinsensibly back to him. It was with him, as with the rest of mankind;who knows how much one's ideas may change, from the beginning to theend of a repast, be it ever so modest! A philosopher has plainlydemonstrated that heroism is but an affair of the stomach.

  The old fellow looked at the situation in a much less sombre light. Hehad plenty of time before him! A clever man could accomplish a greatdeal in a month! Would his usual penetration fail him now? Certainlynot. His great regret was, his inability to let Albert know that someone was working for him.

  He was entirely another man, as he rose from the table; and it was witha sprightly step that he walked towards the Rue St. Lazare. Nine o'clockstruck as the concierge opened the door for him. He went at once up tothe fourth floor to inquire after the health of his former friend, herwhom he used to call the excellent, the worthy Madame Gerdy.

  It was Noel who let him in, Noel, who had doubtless been thinking ofthe past, for he looked as sad as though the dying woman was really hismother.

  In consequence of this unexpected circumstance, old Tabaret could notavoid going in for a few minutes, though he would much have preferrednot doing so. He knew very well, that, being with the advocate, he wouldbe unavoidably led to speak of the Lerouge case; and how could he dothis, knowing, as he did, the particulars much better than his youngfriend himself, without betraying his secret? A single imprudent wordmight reveal the part he was playing in this sad drama. It was, aboveall others, from his dear Noel, now Viscount de Commarin, that he wishedentirely to conceal his connection with the police.

  But, on the other hand, he thirsted to know what had passed between theadvocate and the count. His ignorance on this single point aroused hiscuriosity. However, as he could not withdraw he resolved to keep closewatch upon his language and remain constantly on his guard.

  The advocate ushered the old man into Madame Gerdy's room. Hercondition, since the afternoon, had changed a little; though it wasimpossible to say whether for the better or the worse. One thing wasevident, her prostration was not so great. Her eyes still remainedclosed; but a slight quivering of the lids was evident. She constantlymoved on her pillow, and moaned feebly.

  "What does the doctor say?" asked old Tabaret, in that low voice oneunconsciously employs in a sick room.

  "He has just gone," replied Noel; "before long all will be over."

  The old man advanced on tip-toe, and looked at the dying woman withevident emotion.

  "Poor creature!" he murmured; "God is merciful in taking her. Sheperhaps suffers much; but what is this pain compared to what she wouldfeel if she knew that her son, her true son, was in prison, accused ofmurder?"

  "That is what I keep thinking," said Noel, "to console myself for thissight. For I still love her, my old friend; I shall always regard heras a mother. You have heard me curse her, have you not? I have twicetreated her very harshly. I thought I hated her; but now, at the momentof losing her, I forget every wrong she has done me, only to rememberher tenderness. Yes, for her, death is far preferable! And yet I do notthink, no, I cannot think her son guilty."

  "No! what, you too?"

  Old Tabaret put so much warmth and vivacity into this exclamation, thatNoel looked at him with astonishment. He felt his face grow red, and hehastened to explain himself. "I said, 'you too,'" he continued, "becauseI, thanks perhaps to my inexperience, am persuaded also of this youngman's innocence. I cannot in the least imagine a man of his rankmeditating and accomplishing so cowardly a crime. I have spoken withmany persons on this matter which has made so much noise; and everybodyis of my opinion. He has public opinion in his favor; that is alreadysomething."

  Seated near the bed, sufficiently far from the lamp to be in the shade,the nun hastily knitted stockings destined for the poor. It was a purelymechanical work, during which she usually prayed. But, since old Tabaretentered the room, she forgot her everlasting prayers whilst listeningto the conversation. What did it all mean? Who could this woman be? Andthis young man who was not her son, and who yet called her mother,and at the same time spoke of a true son accused of being an assassin?Before this she had overheard mysterious remarks pass between Noel andthe doctor. Into what strange house had she entered? She was a littleafraid; and her conscience was sorely troubled. Was she not sinning? Sheresolved to tell all to the priest, when he returned.

  "No," said Noel, "no, M. Tabaret; Albert has not public opinion for him.We are sharper than that in France, as you know. When a poor devil isarrested, entirely innocent, perhaps, of the crime charged against him,we are always ready to throw stones at him. We keep all our pity forhim, who, without doubt guilty, appears before the court of assize. Aslong as the justice hesitates, we side with the prosecution against theprisoner. The moment it is proved that the man is a villain, all oursympathies are in his favour. That is public opinion. You understand,however, that it affects me but little. I despise it to such an extent,that if, as I dare still hope, Albert is not released, I will defendhim. Yes, I have told the Count de Commarin, my father, as much. I willbe his counsel, and I will save him."

  Gladly would the old man have thrown himself on Noel's neck. He longedto say to him: "We will save him together." But he restrained himself.Would not the advocate despise him, if he told him his secret! Heresolved, however, to reveal all should it become necessary, or shouldAlbert's position become worse. For the time being, he contented himselfwith strongly approving his young friend.

  "Bravo! my boy," said he; "you have a noble heart. I feared to see youspoiled by wealth and rank; pardon me. You will remain, I see, what youhave always been in your more humble position. But, tell me, you have,then, seen your father, the count?"

  Now, for the first time, Noel seemed to notice the nun's eyes, which,lighted by eager curiosity, glittered in the shadow like carbuncles.With a look, he drew the old man's attention to her, and said: "I haveseen him; and everything is arranged to my satisfaction. I will tell youall, in detail, by-and-by, when we are more at ease. By this bedside, Iam almost ashamed of my happiness."

  M. Tabaret was obliged to content himself with this reply and thispromise. Seeing that he would learn nothing that evening, he spokeof going to bed, declaring himself tired out by what he had had to doduring the day. Noel did not ask him to stop. He was expecting, he said,Madame Gerdy's brother, who had been sent for several times, but whowas not at home. He hardly knew how he could again meet this brother,he added: he did not yet know what conduct he ought to pursue. Shouldhe tell him all? It would only increase his grief. On the other hand,silence would oblige him to play a difficult part. The old man advisedhim to say nothing; he could explain all later on.

  "What a fine fellow Noel is!" murmured old Tabaret, as he regainedhis apartments as quietly as possible. He had been absent from hometwenty-four hours; and he fully expected a formidable scene with hishousekeeper. Mannette was decidedly out of temper, and declared oncefor all, that she would certainly seek a new place if her master did notchange his conduct.

&
nbsp; She had remained up all night, in a terrible fright, listening to theleast sound on the stairs, expecting every moment to see her masterbrought home on a litter, assassinated. There had been great commotionin the house. M. Gerdy had gone down a short time after her master, andshe had seen him return two hours later. After that, they had sent forthe doctor. Such goings on would be the death of her, without countingthat her constitution was too weak to allow her to sit up so late. ButMannette forgot that she did not sit up on her master's account nor onNoel's but was expecting one of her old friends, one of those handsomeGardes de Paris who had promised to marry her, and for whom she hadwaited in vain, the rascal!

  She burst forth in reproaches, while she prepared her master's bed,too sincere, she declared, to keep anything on her mind, or to keep hermouth closed, when it was a question of his health and reputation. M.Tabaret made no reply, not being in the mood for argument. He bent hishead to the storm, and turned his back to the hail. But, as soon asMannette had finished what she was about, he put her out of the room,and double locked the door.

  He busied himself in forming a new line of battle, and in deciding uponprompt and active measures. He rapidly examined the situation. Hadhe been deceived in his investigations? No. Were his calculations ofprobabilities erroneous? No. He had started with a positive fact, themurder. He had discovered the particulars; his inferences were correct,and the criminal was evidently such as he had described him. The man M.Daburon had had arrested could not be the criminal. His confidence in ajudicial axiom had led him astray, when he pointed to Albert.

  "That," thought he, "is the result of following accepted opinions andthose absurd phrases, all ready to hand, which are like mile-stonesalong a fool's road! Left free to my own inspirations, I should haveexamined this case more thoroughly, I would have left nothing to chance.The formula, 'Seek out the one whom the crime benefits' may often beas absurd as true. The heirs of a man assassinated are in reality allbenefited by the murder; while the assassin obtains at most the victim'swatch and purse. Three persons were interested in Widow Lerouge'sdeath:--Albert, Madame Gerdy, and the Count de Commarin. It is plain tome that Albert is not the criminal. It is not Madame Gerdy, who is dyingfrom the shock caused by the unexpected announcement of the crime. Thereremains, then, the Count. Can it be he? If so, he certainly did not doit himself. He must have hired some wretch, a wretch of good position,if you please, wearing patent leather boots of a good make, and smokingtrabucos cigars with an amber mouth-piece. These well-dressedvillains ordinarily lack nerve. They cheat, they forge; but they don'tassassinate. Supposing, though, that the count did get hold of somedare-devil fellow. He would simply have replaced one accomplice byanother still more dangerous. That would be idiotic, and the count is asensible man. He, therefore, had nothing whatever to do with the matter.To be quite sure though, I will make some inquiries about him. Anotherthing, Widow Lerouge, who so readily exchanged the children whilenursing them, would be very likely to undertake a number of otherdangerous commissions. Who can say that she has not obliged otherpersons who had an equal interest in getting rid of her? There is asecret, I am getting at it, but I do not hold it yet. One thing iscertain though, she was not assassinated to prevent Noel recovering hisrights. She must have been suppressed for some analogous reason, by abold and experienced scoundrel, prompted by similar motives to thoseof which I suspected Albert. It is, then, in that direction that I mustfollow up the case now. And, above all, I must obtain the past historyof this obliging widow, and I will have it too, for in all probabilitythe particulars which have been written for from her birthplace willarrive tomorrow."

  Returning to Albert, old Tabaret weighed the charges which were broughtagainst the young man, and reckoned the chances which he still had infavour of his release.

  "From the look of things," he murmured, "I see only luck and myself,that is to say absolutely nothing, in his favor at present. As to thecharges, they are countless. However, it is no use going over them.It is I who amassed them; and I know what they are worth! At onceeverything and nothing. What do signs prove, however striking they maybe, in cases where one ought to disbelieve even the evidence of one'sown senses? Albert is a victim of the most remarkable coincidences; butone word might explain them. There have been many such cases. It waseven worse in the matter of the little tailor. At five o'clock, hebought a knife, which he showed to ten of his friends, saying, 'This isfor my wife, who is an idle jade, and plays me false with my workmen.'In the evening, the neighbours heard a terrible quarrel between thecouple, cries, threats, stampings, blows; then suddenly all was quiet.The next day, the tailor had disappeared from his home, and the wife wasdiscovered dead, with the very same knife buried to the hilt between hershoulders. Ah, well! it turned out it was not the husband who had stuckit there; it was a jealous lover. After that, what is to be believed?Albert, it is true, will not give an account of how he passed Tuesdayevening. That does not affect me. The question for me is not to provewhere he was, but that he was not at La Jonchere. Perhaps, after all,Gevrol is on the right track. I hope so, from the bottom of myheart. Yes; God grant that he may be successful. My vanity and my madpresumption will deserve the slight punishment of his triumph over me.What would I not give to establish this man's innocence? Half of myfortune would be but a small sacrifice. If I should not succeed! If,after having caused the evil, I should find myself powerless to undoit!"

  Old Tabaret went to bed, shuddering at this last thought. He fellasleep, and had a terrible nightmare. Lost in that vulgar crowd, which,on the days when society revenges itself, presses about the Place de laRouquette and watches the last convulsions of one condemned to death,he attended Albert's execution. He saw the unhappy man, his hands boundbehind his back, his collar turned down, ascend, supported by a priest,the steep flight of steps leading on to the scaffold. He saw himstanding upon the fatal platform, turning his proud gaze upon theterrified assembly beneath him. Soon the eyes of the condemned man methis own; and, bursting his cords, he pointed him, Tabaret, out to thecrowd, crying, in a loud voice: "That man is my assassin." Then a greatclamour arose to curse the detective. He wished to escape; but his feetseemed fixed to the ground. He tried at least to close his eyes; hecould not. A power unknown and irresistible compelled him to look.Then Albert again cried out: "I am innocent; the guilty one is----" Hepronounced a name; the crowd repeated this name, and he alone did notcatch what it was. At last the head of the condemned man fell.

  M. Tabaret uttered a loud cry, and awoke in a cold perspiration. It tookhim some time to convince himself that nothing was real of what he hadjust heard and seen, and that he was actually in his own house, inhis own bed. It was only a dream! But dreams sometimes are, they say,warnings from heaven. His imagination was so struck with what had justhappened that he made unheard of efforts to recall the name pronouncedby Albert. Not succeeding, he got up and lighted his candle. Thedarkness made him afraid, the night was full of phantoms. It was nolonger with him a question of sleep. Beset with these anxieties, heaccused himself most severely, and harshly reproached himself for theoccupation he had until then so delighted in. Poor humanity!

  He was evidently stark mad the day when he first had the idea of seekingemployment in the Rue de Jerusalem. A noble hobby, truly, for a man ofhis age, a good quiet citizen of Paris, rich, and esteemed by all! Andto think that he had been proud of his exploits, that he had boasted ofhis cunning, that he had plumed himself on his keenness of scent, thathe had been flattered by that ridiculous sobriquet, "Tirauclair." Oldfool! What could he hope to gain from that bloodhound calling? All sortsof annoyance, the contempt of the world, without counting the danger ofcontributing to the conviction of an innocent man. Why had he not takenwarning by the little tailor's case.

  Recalling his few satisfactions of the past, and comparing them with hispresent anguish, he resolved that he would have no more to do with it.Albert once saved, he would seek some less dangerous amusement, and onemore generally appreciated. He would break the connection of which hewas asha
med, and the police and justice might get on the best they couldwithout him.

  At last the day, which he had awaited with feverish impatience, dawned.To pass the time, he dressed himself slowly, with much care, trying tooccupy his mind with needless details, and to deceive himself as to thetime by looking constantly at the clock, to see if it had not stopped.In spite of all this delay, it was not eight o'clock when he presentedhimself at the magistrate's house, begging him to excuse, on account ofthe importance of his business, a visit too early not to be indiscreet.

  Excuses were superfluous. M. Daburon was never disturbed by a call ateight o'clock in the morning. He was already at work. He received theold amateur detective with his usual kindness, and even joked with hima little about his excitement of the previous evening. Who would havethought his nerves were so sensitive? Doubtless the night had broughtdeliberation. Had he recovered his reason? or had he put his hand on thetrue criminal?

  This trifling tone in a magistrate, who was accused of being graveeven to a fault, troubled the old man. Did not this quizzing hide adetermination not to be influenced by anything that he could say?He believed it did; and it was without the least deception that hecommenced his pleading.

  He put the case more calmly this time, but with all the energy of awell-digested conviction. He had appealed to the heart, he now appealedto reason; but, although doubt is essentially contagious, he neithersucceeded in convincing the magistrate, nor in shaking his opinion. Hisstrongest arguments were of no more avail against M. Daburon's absoluteconviction than bullets made of bread crumbs would be against abreastplate. And there was nothing very surprising in that.

  Old Tabaret had on his side only a subtle theory, mere words; M. Daburonpossessed palpable testimony, facts. And such was the peculiarity ofthe case, that all the reasons brought forward by the old man to justifyAlbert simply reacted against him, and confirmed his guilt.

  A repulse at the magistrate's hands had entered too much into M.Tabaret's anticipations for him to appear troubled or discouraged. Hedeclared that, for the present, he would insist no more; he had fullconfidence in the magistrate's wisdom and impartiality. All he wishedwas to put him on his guard against the presumptions which he himselfunfortunately had taken such pains to inspire.

  He was going, he added, to busy himself with obtaining more information.They were only at the beginning of the investigation; and they werestill ignorant of very many things, even of Widow Lerouge's past life.More facts might come to light. Who knew what testimony the man with theearrings, who was being pursued by Gevrol, might give? Though in a greatrage internally, and longing to insult and chastise he whom he inwardlystyled a "fool of a magistrate," old Tabaret forced himself to be humbleand polite. He wished, he said, to keep well posted up in the differentphases of the investigation, and to be informed of the result of futureinterrogations. He ended by asking permission to communicate withAlbert, He thought his services deserved this slight favour. He desiredan interview of only ten minutes without witnesses.

  M. Daburon refused this request. He declared, that, for the present, theprisoner must continue to remain strictly in solitary confinement.By way of consolation, he added that, in three or four days, he mightperhaps be able to reconsider this decision, as the motives whichprompted it would then no longer exist.

  "Your refusal is cruel, sir," said M. Tabaret; "but I understand it, andsubmit."

  That was his only complaint: and he withdrew almost immediately, fearingthat he could no longer master his indignation. He felt that, besidesthe great happiness of saving an innocent man, compromised by hisimprudence, he would experience unspeakable delight in avenging himselffor the magistrate's obstinacy.

  "Three or four days," he muttered, "that is the same as three or fouryears to the unfortunate prisoner. He takes things quite at his ease,this charming magistrate. But I must find out the real truth of the casebetween now and then."

  Yes, M. Daburon only required three or four days to wring a confessionfrom Albert, or at least to make him abandon his system of defence.

  The difficulty of the prosecution was not being able to produce anywitness who had seen the prisoner during the evening of Shrove Tuesday.

  One deposition alone to that effect would have such great weight, thatM. Daburon, as soon as Tabaret had left him, turned all his attentionin that direction. He could still hope for a great deal. It was onlySaturday, the day of the murder was remarkable enough to fix people'smemories, and up till then there had not been time to start a properinvestigation.

  He arranged for five of the most experienced detectives in the secretservice to be sent to Bougival, supplied with photographs of theprisoner. They were to scour the entire country between Rueil andLa Jonchere, to inquire everywhere, and make the most minuteinvestigations. The photographs would greatly aid their efforts. Theyhad orders to show them everywhere and to everybody and even to leave adozen about the neighbourhood, as they were furnished with a sufficientnumber to do so. It was impossible, that, on an evening when so manypeople were about, no one had noticed the original of the portraiteither at the railway station at Rueil or upon one of the roads whichlead to La Jonchere, the high road, and the path by the river.

  These arrangements made, the investigating magistrate proceeded to thePalais de Justice, and sent for Albert. He had already in the morningreceived a report, informing him hour by hour of the acts, gestures, andutterances of the prisoner, who had been carefully watched. Nothing inhim, the report said, betrayed the criminal. He seemed very sad, but notdespairing. He had not cried out, nor threatened, nor cursed justice,nor even spoken of a fatal error. After eating lightly, he had gone tothe window of his cell, and had there remained standing for more than anhour. Then he laid down, and had quietly gone to sleep.

  "What an iron constitution!" thought M. Daburon, when the prisonerentered his office.

  Albert was no longer the despairing man who, the night before,bewildered with the multiplicity of charges, surprised by the rapiditywith which they were brought against him, had writhed beneath themagistrate's gaze, and appeared ready to succumb. Innocent or guilty,he had made up his mind how to act; his face left no doubt of that. Hiseyes expressed that cold resolution of a sacrifice freely made, anda certain haughtiness which might be taken for disdain, but whichexpressed the noble resentment of an injured man. In him could beseen the self-reliant man, who might be shaken but never overcome bymisfortune.

  On beholding him, the magistrate understood that he would have tochange his mode of attack. He recognized one of those natures which areprovoked to resistance when assailed, and strengthened when menaced.He therefore gave up his former tactics, and attempted to move him bykindness. It was a hackneyed trick, but almost always successful, likecertain pathetic scenes at theatres. The criminal who has girt up hisenergy to sustain the shock of intimidation, finds himself withoutdefence against the wheedling of kindness, the greater in proportion toits lack of sincerity. Now M. Daburon excelled in producing affectingscenes. What confessions he had obtained with a few tears! No one knewso well as he how to touch those old chords which vibrate still even inthe most corrupt hearts: honour, love, and family ties.

  With Albert, he became kind and friendly, and full of the liveliestcompassion. Unfortunate man! how greatly he must suffer, he whose wholelife had been like one long enchantment. How at a single blow everythingabout him had fallen in ruins. Who could have foreseen all this atthe time when he was the one hope of a wealthy and illustrious house!Recalling the past, the magistrate pictured to him the most touchingreminiscences of his early youth, and stirred up the ashes of allhis extinct affections. Taking advantage of all that he knew of theprisoner's life, he tortured him by the most mournful allusions toClaire. Why did he persist in bearing alone his great misfortune? Had heno one in the world who would deem it happiness to share his sufferings?Why this morose silence? Should he not rather hasten to reassure herwhose very life depended upon his? What was necessary for that? A singleword. Then he would be, if not free,
at least returned to the world. Hisprison would become a habitable abode, no more solitary confinement; hisfriends would visit him, he might receive whomsoever he wished to see.

  It was no longer the magistrate who spoke; it was a father, who, nomatter what happens, always keeps in the recesses of his heart, thegreatest indulgence for his child.

  M. Daburon did even more. For a moment he imagined himself in Albert'sposition. What would he have done after the terrible revelation? Hescarcely dared ask himself. He understood the motive which prompted themurder of Widow Lerouge; he could explain it to himself; he could almostexcuse it. (Another trap.) It was certainly a great crime, but in no wayrevolting to conscience or to reason. It was one of those crimes whichsociety might, if not forget, at least forgive up to a certain point,because the motive was not a shameful one. What tribunal would failto find extenuating circumstances for a moment of frenzy so excusable.Besides was not the Count de Commarin the more guilty of the two? Was itnot his folly that prepared the way for this terrible event? His son wasthe victim of fatality, and was in the highest degree to be pitied.

  M. Daburon spoke for a long time upon this text, seeking those thingsmost suitable in his opinion to soften the hardened heart of anassassin. And he arrived always at the same conclusion,--the wisdomof confessing. But he wasted his eloquence precisely as M. Tabaret hadwasted his. Albert appeared in no way affected. His answers were of theshortest. He began and ended as on the first occasion, by protesting hisinnocence.

  One test, which has often given the desired result, still remained to betried.

  On this same day, Saturday, Albert was confronted with the corpse ofWidow Lerouge. He appeared impressed by the sad sight, but no more thananyone would be, if forced to look at the victim of an assassinationfour days after the crime. One of the bystanders having exclaimed: "Ah,if she could but speak!" he replied: "That would be very fortunate forme."

  Since morning, M. Daburon had not gained the least advantage. He had hadto acknowledge the failure of his manoeuvres; and now this last attempthad not succeeded either. The prisoner's continued calmness filled tooverflowing the exasperation of this man so sure of his guilt. His spitewas evident to all, when, suddenly ceasing his wheedling, he harshlygave the order to re-conduct the prisoner to his cell.

  "I will compel him to confess!" he muttered between his teeth.

  Perhaps he regretted those gentle instruments of investigation of themiddle ages, which compelled the prisoner to say whatever one wished tohear. Never, thought he, did any one ever meet a culprit like this. Whatcould he reasonably hope for from his system of persistent denial? Thisobstinacy, absurd in the presence of such absolute proofs, drove themagistrate into a rage. Had Albert confessed his guilt, he would havefound M. Daburon disposed to pity him; but as he denied it, he opposedhimself to an implacable enemy.

  It was the very falseness of the situation which misled and blinded thismagistrate, naturally so kind and generous. Having previously wishedAlbert innocent, he now absolutely longed to prove him guilty, and thatfor a hundred reasons which he was unable to analyze. He remembered,too well, his having had the Viscount de Commarin for a rival, and hishaving nearly assassinated him. Had he not repented even to remorse hishaving signed the warrant of arrest, and his having accepted the duty ofinvestigating the case. Old Tabaret's incomprehensible change of opiniontroubled him, too.

  All these feelings combined, inspired M. Daburon with a feverish hatred,and urged him on in the path which he had chosen. It was now less theproofs of Albert's guilt which he sought for than the justification ofhis own conduct as magistrate. The investigation became embittered likea personal matter.

  In fact, were the prisoner innocent, he would become inexcusable in hisown eyes; and, in proportion as he reproached himself the more severely,and as the knowledge of his own failings grew, he felt the more disposedto try everything to conquer his former rival, even to abusing his ownpower. The logic of events urged him on. It seemed as though his honouritself was at stake; and he displayed a passionate activity, such as hehad never before been known to show in any investigation.

  M. Daburon passed all Sunday in listening to the reports of thedetectives he had sent to Bougival.

  They had spared no trouble, they stated, but they could report nothingnew.

  They had heard many people speak of a woman, who pretended, they said,to have seen the assassin leave Widow Lerouge's cottage; but no onehad been able to point this woman out to them, or even to give them hername.

  They all thought it their duty, however, to inform the magistrate thatanother inquiry was going on at the same time as theirs. It was directedby M. Tabaret, who personally scoured the country round about in acabriolet drawn by a very swift horse. He must have acted with greatpromptness; for, no matter where they went, he had been there beforethem. He appeared to have under his orders a dozen men, four of whom atleast certainly belonged to the Rue de Jerusalem. All the detectives hadmet him; and he had spoken to them. To one, he had said: "What the deuceare you showing this photograph for? In less than no time you will havea crowd of witnesses, who, to earn three francs, will describe some onemore like the portrait than the portrait itself."

  He had met another on the high-road, and had laughed at him.

  "You are a simple fellow," he cried out, "to hunt for a hiding man onthe high-way; look a little aside, and you may find him."

  Again he had accosted two who were together in a cafe at Bougival, andhad taken them aside.

  "I have him," he said to them. "He is a smart fellow; he came byChatois. Three people have seen him--two railway porters and a thirdperson whose testimony will be decisive, for she spoke to him. He wassmoking."

  M. Daburon became so angry with old Tabaret, that he immediately startedfor Bougival, firmly resolved to bring the too zealous man back toParis, and to report his conduct in the proper quarter. The journey,however, was useless. M. Tabaret, the cabriolet, the swift horse, andthe twelve men had all disappeared, or at least were not to be found.

  On returning home, greatly fatigued, and very much out of temper, theinvestigating magistrate found the following telegram from the chief ofthe detective force awaiting him; it was brief, but to the point:

  "ROUEN, Sunday.

  "The man is found. This evening we start for Paris. The most valuabletestimony. GEVROL."