"Oh! you are not quite so arrogant now. You are afraid of being sent to prison. Ah, well, just state in writing that you came here to entreat me to return you a letter which was written by you to Dargental, and which deeply compromised you."
"No," said the countess, regaining courage. "I will not write a single line. Send for all the commissaries in Paris, and tell them whatever you please. No one will believe you."
"You are very much mistaken. My assertions may not have much weight, but I will produce a witness to support them."
"A witness! what do you mean?" exclaimed Madame de Lescombat, turning perceptibly paler.
Blanche, instead of replying, hastened to the silken curtain, dashed it aside, caught hold of George by the arm, and dragged him into the presence of the now terrified visitor. George was greatly disturbed, for he had not expected this, and did not know what he should say to the countess. He must be careful, at any rate, for an imprudent word might ruin Puymirol. "Who are you, sir?" asked Madame de Lescombat, when she had partially recovered from her alarm.
"I am Adhémar de Puymirol's most intimate friend, madame."
"Then you are George Caumont. I have often heard you spoken of, but I never supposed that I should find you here, playing the part of a spy."
"I am no spy, madame. It was against my will that I entered that boudoir, and that I listened to your conversation, but now I don't regret having listened."
"You have the courage of your opinions, I see. Well, have the frankness to tell me what use you intend to make of the information you have thus obtained."
"I shall govern my conduct by yours, madame," replied George, looking searchingly at the countess. "If you dare to accuse my friend of a crime he has not committed, I shall accuse you."
"Oh! I merely mentioned that Monsieur de Puymirol had been arrested because I was told so; but as for bothering myself about his affairs, I take no interest in him whatever."
"Then, why did you ask him to go and see you after the show at the Palais de l'Industrie? He went to your house, I know, and until I learn what passed between you two, I have a right to suppose that he has been compromised through your fault."
"Suppose whatever you like, but allow me to leave this house, unless you mean to assist this person in detaining me here by force."
"That is not my intention, but I think she does right to exact guarantee from you."
"I have no idea of writing anything at her dictation, for I scorn her threats, and I defy you to go and tell a magistrate that you listened at the door, or to repeat the conversation you just heard. Assertions are not facts. As for that letter, if it were in mademoiselle's possession, she would have used it against me long ago. If she has it, let her show it. She boasted to several people about having it; but, plainly enough, it was mere brag."
Madame de Lescombat's blow told this time; for Blanche was utterly unable to produce the famous letter. "I boasted about having seen it!" she replied. "Why, where can you have obtained your information? I have never mentioned your letter to anyone excepting Monsieur Caumont, here."
"It was Monsieur de Puymirol who informed me," said the countess.
"Puymirol!" exclaimed George. "That is false!"
"You might be a trifle less rude, sir," responded Madame de Lescombat, coldly. "Your friend came to my house after the horse show. He alluded to his financial worries—which were no news to me, however—and spoke at some length of Pierre Dargental's tragic death. He gave me to understand that I might find myself seriously compromised, but that it was in his power to save me from any serious trouble. I had no fears of that, however, so I declined his offers, but his manner was so strange and his language so embarrassed, that it occurred to me, that he, himself, was afraid of being compromised, and that he was trying to make me share the responsibility of his own conduct. This explains why the news of his arrest did not surprise me very much." George hung his head, for he was afraid that this account of the interview might be true. "This is what I shall tell the magistrate, if he questions me," concluded the countess, with an ironical glance at Blanche. "You, sir, and you, mademoiselle, are at liberty to make use of the weapons you pretend to hold. But your threats don't alarm me, for I know that you have no such weapons at all."
"Are you sure of that?" retorted George. He had already forgotten all his prudent resolutions, and longed to speak his mind freely to this audacious creature. "Your language does not intimidate me, madame," he continued. "You deny that you ever wrote Dargental a letter that might ruin you. Well, I myself have seen that letter, and I am satisfied that if the magistrate saw it, he would immediately issue a warrant for your arrest."
"Was it Monsieur de Puymirol that showed it to you?"
"You have guessed correctly. It was Puymirol. In fact he and I found the pocket-book. Puymirol made a great mistake in trying to profit by one of the lottery tickets it contained, and he has been severely punished for doing so. As for myself, I have made no use of the letters as yet, but I shall, if you force me to do so."
"The letters! There are several, then?"
"There are three."
"Is mine one of them?" asked Blanche, eagerly.
"Yes," was the laconic reply.
"Then, madame here told a falsehood when she said that she had it. I suspected as much," said the actress.
"You also told an untruth," retorted the countess. "And this gentleman doubtless intends to exact hush-money from us."
"I scorn to notice your insults," replied George. "I kept the letters, because I did not know what else to do with them. But now that my friend is compromised, I must take them to the investigating magistrate at once. I shall tell him the whole truth, and though he may blame me, the worst consequences will fall upon the persons who were so deeply interested in regaining possession of their letters. One of them, at least, hasn't shrunk from a crime to recover her property."
"I'm not that one," said Blanche, "and you need no better proof of that, than my earnest approval of your plan, and my wish that you should see the magistrate as soon as possible."
"Do as you please, sir," said the countess, with pretended indifference. "You mean to try and exculpate Monsieur de Puymirol and to inculpate me. I think, however, that you will only aggravate your friend's situation, for this story of the finding and keeping of the pocket-book does not redound to his credit or to yours. Besides, a magistrate won't accuse a person of my rank merely because a letter of hers is shown to him at the same time as letters from other women of greatly inferior position. If the magistrate suspects any one, it will be mademoiselle here, or else the writer of the third letter; that is, unless the three correspondents are only an invention—I shall only believe your story when I have proof of it."
"I will furnish proof," cried George, yielding to a sudden impulse, and as he spoke he drew the letters from his pocket, and spread them out in his hand in the form of a fan. "Do you recognise yours?" he said to the countess.
Madame de Lescombat turned pale, but made no reply. "I recognise mine," answered Blanche, promptly. "It is the one on the right. Madame's is the one to the left. Dargental once showed it to me, and the handwriting is not of a kind that one is likely to forget."
At this moment the door of the room opened and Albert Verdon swept in like a whirlwind. "George!" he exclaimed, in astonishment. "Well, well, I am delighted to see you! But what the deuce are you doing? Are you playing cards with Blanche?"
At sight of a stranger, the countess lowered her veil, and turned towards the door. As she did so, Albert perceived her, and hastily doffing his hat, stammered: "Excuse me, madame. But I thought Blanche was alone with this gentleman, who is my friend, and who will soon be my brother-in-law."
The countess gave him a keen glance and reflected: "So this young fellow is this girl's lover, and Caumont is about to marry his sister. I am saved. Caumont won't dare to hand the letters to a magistrate." Then, instead of replying to Albert's apology, she bowed to the entire company, and left the room. Blanche responded by a gesture that signified "Good riddance," while George remained so entirely taken by surprise, that he lacked the presence of mind to conceal the letters which the young officer had mistaken for playing-cards. "Well, well," said Albert, "why do you all look so strange? Who was that lady dressed in black? You seemed to be acting a tragedy, together."
"You are about right," said Blanche, gaily. "You have just seen the Countess de Lescombat."
"The lady to whom you wished to send me as envoy extraordinary? And she has paid you a visit? Have you signed a treaty of peace?"
"Oh, no; didn't you notice that she went off in a huff?"
"That's true. She looked furious; but you spoke the other day of a letter she refused to return to you. Did she bring it back to you to-day?"
"On the contrary, she came to ask me to return a letter of hers. But don't try to solve the mystery. You will not succeed."
"But I must. If you won't tell me anything, I shall apply to George."
"Oh! he's free to tell you what he likes," rejoined Blanche.
George being thus referred to, felt that he could not remain silent, and so, with the best grace he could muster, he began: "You have a right to know the whole truth, my dear Albert. You recollect that I spoke to you yesterday, and again this morning, about my friend Puymirol, and the anxiety his prolonged absence caused me? Well, he has been arrested on the charge of murdering that Monsieur Dargental, who, as you already know, was formerly one of Blanche's admirers."
"Indeed! arrested!" exclaimed Albert. "How can that be? How can suspicion have fallen on him?"
"Listen to me," said George. "I will explain everything;" and thereupon he gave Albert a substantial account of all he knew; the dropping of the pocket-book into the cab; the lunch at the Lion d'Or; the finding of Dargental's dead body; Puymirol's determination to discover the writers of the letters contained in the pocket-book; his subsequent disappearance, his attempt to cash a winning lottery ticket, his arrest, and the search made in the Rue de Medicis. "It was very foolish on Puymirol's part," he added, "for him to conceive the idea of conducting an investigation instead of reporting the facts to the authorities; but it was in vain that I represented to him that he would place himself in a very dangerous position. He first went to the house of the Countess de Lescombat. Ah! I forgot to tell you that one of the letters found in the pocket-book had evidently come from her."
"And was one of the others from Blanche?" asked Albert.
"Yes," replied Mademoiselle Pornic, promptly, "and I will explain it after you have read it. Monsieur Caumont can show it to you."
"Are the letters in your possession?" asked the young officer, looking searchingly at George.
"I have had them for two days past. Puymirol, before calling upon the countess, intrusted them to my keeping, and I have not been able to return them, as I have not seen him since."
"Read my letter," insisted Blanche.
"Are you willing to show it to me?" inquired Albert.
"Perfectly willing," replied George, "and the two others also. Besides, I want your advice in this matter; but it must be given with a full knowledge of all the circumstances. Here are the letters," he added holding them out. "Begin with Mademoiselle Pornic's. The top one won't be interesting to you, as we have no clue to the writer."
"It is very strange," exclaimed the officer, "but I am almost sure that I recognise the handwriting." And at the same time he turned very pale. George looked at him in surprise, and was suddenly seized with the idea that the third missive must have been written by some one closely connected with his future brother-in-law. Accordingly he hastily slipped it between the others, and lowered his hand. He had not been mistaken, for Albert, in a voice husky with emotion, resumed: "I am wrong of course, but give me the letter. I should like to examine it more closely. Why do you hesitate? You must know who wrote it?"
"No! I swear I don't."
"Then show it to me. I have good eyes, and I saw it only too well. I can't remain in this cruel suspense. Give me the letter, I tell you."
George turned pale in his turn. He felt that matters were becoming serious, and he asked himself anxiously how he could get out of the scrape. "My dear Albert," he said, with an evident effort, "you must see that you are placing me in a very embarrassing position. Give me, at least, an explanation that will relieve me of any responsibility. Convince me that you have some serious reason for reading that letter."
"It is so serious that if you refuse to give it me, I will have no further connection with you."
"But whom do you suppose the writer to be?"
"I won't answer you—I can't."
"Then you must excuse me from yielding to a whim which you don't even take the trouble to justify. You threaten to withdraw your friendship, well, I appeal to your reason. If need be, I will leave the matter to umpires of your own selection."
"I cannot explain here."
"That means you distrust me," exclaimed Blanche. "Ah, well, my friend, don't let me stand in your way. I will leave you alone with Monsieur Caumont, and you can talk without fear of being overheard. There is no one in the adjoining boudoir, and I will go to my dressing room, at the other end of the flat."
George and the young lieutenant were left standing face to face, equally agitated and embarrassed. "You promised to show me that letter if I would name the writer," finally said the officer in a hoarse voice.
"But how can you do that? You scarcely saw the letter, and all feminine handwriting is more or less alike."
"This is so familiar, that I cannot possibly be mistaken. It is as well known to me as my sister's."
"Pray don't speak of your sister in connection with this matter," said George entreatingly.
"Would you rather I spoke of my mother?"
"Your mother! What do you mean?"
"She wrote that letter. I am certain of it."
"Impossible! You must be mistaken."
"I should recognise the hand among a thousand."
"You forget that the writer of this missive instigated Dargental's murder," insisted George, imprudently, "for it seems almost certain that she was the guilty party, since it was neither Blanche nor the Countess de Lescombat; and how can you think Madame Verdon capable of such a crime? You never met Dargental. You never even heard of him prior to your arrival in Paris."
"I have not lived with my mother since I was a child."
"But your sister has never left her, and she only heard of Dargental through the papers. Your mother obtained her information about his death from the same source, and it did not affect her in the least."
"How do you know?"
"We at least know that Madame Verdon is preparing for her approaching marriage. Besides, where could she have found a scoundrel willing to risk his life for her sake, in order to kill Dargental?"
"Rochas is capable of any crime," said Albert. George hung his head. He had not been prepared for this reply, and he felt the horror of the situation more keenly than ever. "I am grateful to you for defending her," continued the young officer, gravely, "but I entreat you not to leave me in this cruel uncertainty. Show me the letter."
"If it comes from her, what shall you do?"
"I don't know; but one thing is certain, my sister must know nothing of this."
"You can depend upon my silence. But really I cannot allow you to read the letter."
"So be it," said Albert, with an evident effort. "I shall be satisfied if you will merely show it to me. A single glance will suffice to dispel my doubts. That is enough," he said, bitterly, as George held it out for his inspection, with a trembling hand. "I can no longer doubt."
"Let me burn it here and now," pleaded George.
"Why burn it? On the contrary, you must keep it. It will help you in proving that your friend is innocent."
"Can you suppose I would show it to the investigating magistrate? I bless the chance that brought you here. But for this conversation with you, I should have handed this correspondence to the magistrate in the hope of saving my friend. Now, I would rather die than show him these letters. If you insist upon my keeping them, instead of destroying them, I will submit to your decision; but I fear that they may be taken from me. The search in Puymirol's apartments may be repeated to-morrow, and this time perhaps in my rooms as well."
"You are right; but I am anxious that you should remain armed. Intrust these letters to some one."
"To whom could I safely intrust them?"
"Place them in an envelope, seal it securely, and intrust the packet to a man who would rather let himself be hacked to pieces than give it up, or even open it—in short, give it to Roch Plancoët."
"I scarcely know him."
"But I know him, and I will send him to you."
"I will do as you wish, but—"
"My decision is formed. My mother must leave France immediately, never to return. I will see that she does so, and I will make Gabrielle understand that from this day forth, she and I no longer have a mother. You must devote yourself to your friend. Save him, if you can, and when he is at liberty, advise him, also, to disappear. If he should be obliged to speak of the letters in order to get himself out of the scrape, he can only denounce Blanche and the countess as he does not know the writer of the other letter. If the magistrate questions you, tell him you have burned them all. Now go. I must invent some story to prevent Blanche from guessing the truth. You may expect a visit from me to-morrow morning. I shall have something fresh to tell you then."
George, overcome with emotion, made no response, but staggered out of the house like a drunken man.
VIII.
Roch Plancoët lived in some modest rooms at the corner of the Rue Royer Collard, but a few steps from the house occupied by Madame Verdon and her daughter. He might have chosen more expensive quarters, for he possessed a small fortune, honestly and laboriously acquired during his long service as superintendent of the Verdon ironworks. But Roch was a philosopher who scorned luxury and adored solitude. He led a quiet life, and he devoted his time and attention almost exclusively to his friends, Gabrielle and Albert—the children of his foster-brother and benefactor. Gabrielle especially was the object of his almost fatherly solicitude. He visited her every day, and her portrait hung in his sitting-room. With her mother, strange to say, he was always very reserved, though he willingly served her when she asked him to do so, which seldom happened, however. The only favour he had ever asked of her, was permission to see her daughter every day, and she had never dared to refuse that, perhaps because she feared him. Roch had held the position of superintendent at the ironworks when she married M. Verdon; and he was too well acquainted with all the incidents of her life, for her to quarrel with him. When she had informed him of her intention to marry M. Rochas, he had replied that she was perfectly free to contract a second marriage if she pleased, and that if she wished to leave her children he would take charge of them. Then, however, had come the announcement of Gabrielle's engagement to George Caumont. George had had the rare good fortune to please Plancoët, and that was a good deal, for the old fellow was very hard to please as far as his favourite's suitors were concerned. However, although Roch had abundant cause for rejoicing at this good news, at least apparently, he returned home thoughtful and preoccupied, and for twenty-four hours merely set foot out of doors to take his meals at a neighbouring restaurant. On the following afternoon, while he was sitting at his window smoking a pipe, Albert Verdon rang at the door. The young officer seemed to be in a state of great excitement, and Roch anxiously asked him: "What is the matter?"
"Ah! my poor friend, you are the only person to whom I can tell the truth," replied Albert. "You know all about my mother's conduct. Well, I have just seen a letter written by her to a lover—"
"To Rochas?" asked Plancoët, eagerly.
"No, no—to that man Dargental whom I spoke to you about, and who was killed in his rooms a fortnight ago." On hearing this Plancoët staggered back to the-wall. "Yes," resumed Albert fiercely, "to a scamp who traded on women! A professional black mailer! Ah! the truth is so horrible that on making this discovery I at first thought of flinging myself into the Seine."
"You haven't seen your mother since?" asked Plancoët.
"No, I lacked the courage; I wanted to ask your advice. Come, tell me, did you ever know that my mother carried on an intrigue with that man Dargental?"
"I know all that your mother has done since she became a widow," replied Plancoët, gravely, and then after a little pressing from Albert he proceeded to tell the poor fellow the story of Madame Verdon's profligacy. She had been Dargental's mistress for a time, but he had deserted her for Madame de Lescombat whom he hoped to marry, not, however, without having extorted large sums of money from her, by threatening her with the publication of her correspondence. In fact, only shortly before his death, he had threatened to send her letters to Gabrielle.
Albert was crushed by the sad narrative. At last, however, he mustered strength enough to inform Plancoët of Puymirol's arrest, of the scene at Blanche's house, and the attendant discovery, and of Caumont's present willingness to confide the letters to his keeping. "You must take them," said the young fellow, "and go and see my mother—force her to leave Paris in three days' time, and make her promise to marry M. Rochas abroad, without delay. If she refuses, you may tell her that she will certainly be implicated in the murder of M. Dargental."
"And if she consents?"
"Then you can burn the letters or keep them as you like. But come now, George is waiting for us to hand you the notes."
Roch's face had abruptly assumed an expression of resolution. He did not raise any objection but quietly followed Albert to the Luxembourg Gardens where Caumont indeed was waiting. "My dear fellow," said young Verdon to his future brother-in-law, without more ado, "we are all of the same mind. You know my intentions, and my old friend Roch will see that they are carried out. Will you therefore give him the envelope containing the letters?"
George handed it to Plancoët, who accepted the trust without hesitation. "Are they all here?" he inquired.
"Yes, all three of them," replied the lieutenant. "Break the seal and see for yourself, if you like."
"That is unnecessary; your word is sufficient. But I should be greatly obliged to Monsieur Caumont if he would tell me how his friend Monsieur de Puymirol is getting on."
"His situation remains unchanged. He has been subjected to repeated examinations, but the magistrate has so far come to no decision."
"And your friend has said nothing about the letters?" inquired Plancoët.
"No; and yet, I fancy they would be the only means of saving him."
"Then why doesn't he mention them?"
"Probably because he doesn't wish to compromise the Countess de Lescombat. Perhaps, also, he doesn't want to mix me up in this unfortunate affair. If he spoke of the letters the magistrate would instantly suspect that he had intrusted them to me."
"And do you think that he will remain silent until the end?—that he will let himself be sent before the assizes rather than speak out."
"I feel sure of it. He has many faults, but nothing can subjugate or intimidate him. I know him so well that yesterday I made up my mind to interfere and extricate him from his predicament despite himself; but now I can do nothing for fear of involving Albert's mother in the scandal. He is lost!"
Plancoët, visibly agitated, dropped his eyes. "I feel sure that although Madame Verdon may be very guilty she did not instigate Dargental's murder," he said after a short silence.
"Then who could have instigated it—Rochas?"
"I think not. He would not imperil his life to save a woman's honour. But Albert has told you, I suppose, what he wishes me to do?"
"Yes, sir, and I thoroughly approve of his decision."
"And you are still determined to marry Mademoiselle Verdon?"
"More determined than ever, if she will have me."
"But you are aware that two other persons know that the pocket-book has been found, and are acquainted with the contents of the letters intrusted to you by your friend."
"Blanche Pornic will be silent. I can vouch for her," interrupted the young officer. "And Madame de Lescombat also realizes that it is to her interest to do the same."
"I can proceed to act, then," muttered Plancoët, as if talking to himself.
"I trust you will do so without delay," replied Albert. "My mother is now at home and so is Gabrielle, but you can say that you wish to see my mother alone."
"If you have an opportunity of exchanging a few words in private with Mademoiselle Verdon, pray tell her that my feelings are unchanged," said George to Plancoët.
"I will readily promise you that; and now, as you are acquainted with the habits of the investigating magistrate, will you tell me at what hour I should be likely to find him in his office?"
"Oh! my friend Balmer assured me that he would be in his office all day."
"But why do you wish to know that?" interrupted the lieutenant. "I suppose you have no idea of requesting him to release Puymirol?"
"Certainly not," stammered Plancoët.
"Then hasten to my mother's without delay. Now's your time, but when and where shall we see you again?"
"I am afraid the interview will prove a lengthy one."
"Ah, well, George and I will return here at five o'clock. So good-bye for the present, old friend."
"Farewell," replied Plancoët, pressing the hands the two young men held out to him.
With his head bowed down, the old overseer walked slowly towards Madame Verdon's abode. Gabrielle was upon the balcony, and on seeing him she hastened to the door and let him in. "What is happening?" she asked anxiously. "Just now I received a letter from Albert who tells me he shall come and fetch me at nine o'clock to-night to take me to his colonel's sister, in the Rue de Tournon, for he won't let me stay here any longer."
"Listen, my poor girl," replied Roch, "you must do as your brother asks—besides, it is absolutely necessary, for your mother will leave Paris to-morrow."
"To-morrow! but why? That's strange, she surely does not intend to abscond like a criminal?"
"Some transgressions have the same consequence as crimes," said Roch sadly; "believe me—don't try to guess the truth but believe me when I tell you that you must not remain another day under your mother's roof. I swear it by your poor father's memory, by your brother's honour and my own—"
Gabrielle was beginning to understand and tears gathered in her eyes. "Ah!" she murmured in a tone of deep grief.
"But Albert and your future husband will some day tell you more. However, is your mother at home?"
"Yes, in her boudoir."
"Well, I wish to see her and am going there. But before we part let me kiss you and promise me that you will be brave." Then having pressed the poor girl to his heart and imprinted a paternal kiss on her brow he proceeded to Madame Verdon's boudoir.
His interview with the guilty mother was a stormy one—but finally he wrung from her an unwilling compliance with Albert's wishes, and promised her that he would place her letter to Dargental in an envelope and deposit it with his notary, who would hand it to her in exchange for her written consent to Gabrielle's marriage with George Caumont. Then he hastily left the house, returned home, placed Blanche's and Madame de Lescombat's notes in one envelope addressed to George, and Madame Verdon's in another, and after writing some instructions for his notary, he forthwith repaired to the latter's office. When he left it he paused for an instant, but instead of returning to the Luxembourg to acquaint his young friends with the success of his mission, he finally crossed the Pont St. Michel and proceeded towards the Palais de Justice.
IX.
While his friend was trying to save him, Adhémar de Puymirol was in a cell at the prefecture dépôt. It was the third day of his imprisonment, and he was pacing, savagely, up and down, like a captive lion in his cage, when suddenly he heard a jailer unbolt the door, and for a moment he deluded himself with the belief that the moment of his release had arrived. All prisoners are subject to these fits of hopefulness. However, this one was of short duration.
"I am ordered to conduct you to the magistrate's office," announced the jailer.
"What for?" replied Puymirol, "I won't answer his questions, so it is not worth while disturbing me."
"It will be the last time. You came here on the 26th. To-day's the 29th, and no one stays here more than three days."
This reply calmed Puymirol. It did not seem to him at all improbable that his case would end favourably, at all events, he would soon know his fate, so he silently followed the warder through the corridors, and up the staircase to M. Robergeot's office. Charles Balmer's friend was still in the prime of life, and had a prepossessing face. He motioned Puymirol to a chair, and the prisoner, as he sat down, curtly exclaimed: "I hope you will put an end to all this, sir."
"It is with that intention that I sent for you," replied the magistrate, "though I might have spared myself the trouble, as you have so far refused to furnish any of the information asked of you; still, I felt it my duty to give you one more chance to tell the truth."
"I have told you all I am going to tell you."
"You have told me nothing. You have even tried to retract the testimony you gave to the commissary of police at the Palais de l'Industrie. You have adopted a most deplorable course. I say nothing about the fact that you presented a lottery ticket that did not belong to you. That is a trifling offence in comparison with the crime of murder, followed by robbery, with which you are charged. It is true I am perfectly satisfied that you did not fire the bullet that killed Dargental, for I admit that an alibi has been conclusively established, but this does not prove that you don't know the murderer, and that the crime was not committed in your interest, or in the interest of some person connected with you."
"How can you expect me to prove the injustice of your suspicions? I was well acquainted with Dargental, it is true, but though he may have had enemies, I know nothing about them."
"Well, let me refresh your memory on another point of the case. We have succeeded in finding the cabman who took you to the Lion d'Or, and his testimony proves that you were not alone in his cab in which you claim to have found the lottery tickets. Why did you tell the commissary the contrary?"
"You would have done the same, had you been in my place. I do not wish to subject an innocent person to the same annoyance and discomfort as myself."
"But this person's testimony might be of great service to you. Besides, we shall soon ascertain who your companion was. The cabman already declares that on the day of the murder, and between the hours of half-past eleven and half-past twelve o'clock, he drove two young gentlemen from the Rue de Medicis to the Lion d'Or, and that he had no other fares that morning. He also declares that before leaving the stable that day he had carefully examined the interior of his vehicle, and had not found in it any papers left there by any former passenger. He also declares that nothing extraordinary occurred during the drive referred to."
"We are revolving in the same circle, it seems to me," interrupted Puymirol, "and if you have nothing fresh to tell me—"
"This cabman also declares that a few days after the crime a man who had taken the number of his vehicle came to his residence, which he had ascertained at the company's office, and after giving him twenty francs, questioned him at length about this drive on the 9th of April. The cabman could only tell him what he just told me, viz., that his two passengers alighted at the Lion d'Or in the Rue du Helder. Now, can you tell me why this person inquired after you?"
"No, I can't. Look him up yourself, and ask him the question."
"We are looking for him, but though we have not yet succeeded in finding him, I know what he did after his interview with the cabman. I have questioned the employés of the restaurant, among them the door-porter, who tells me that this same man offered him a liberal reward if he would point out either of the two young fellows who breakfasted there in a private room on the morning of April 9th. The porter, who did not know your name, though he knew you very well by sight, promised to do what this person asked, and the latter waited for nearly three weeks, watching for you. You did not show yourself, however, until quite recently; in fact, not until the day previous to your arrest. Then this stranger followed you into the restaurant, and had a long conversation with you, after which you both left the restaurant, though not together. Still, the porter noticed that you followed this stranger up the Boulevard Haussmann. Now, what have you to say to this story? Do you admit that it is true?"
"By no means, but even if I did, what conclusions would you draw from such an admission on my part?" asked Puymirol.
"That this man was your accomplice; that he was the murderer of Dargental, and that he was trying to communicate with you in reference to a crime which he had committed at your instigation."
"You are going too far, it seems to me. You forget that if this person had acted by my orders he would necessarily have known who I was, and where I lived, and would not have applied to the doorkeeper of a restaurant for information about me."
"You doubtless had your reasons for concealing your name and address. When a man hires a scoundrel to commit a murder, he is usually anxious to keep his identity secret. However, there is a very easy way for you to prove that I am mistaken. That is, to tell me what this man wanted of you, what he said to you at the Lion d'Or, and where you went with him after dinner." This argument was irrefutable, and Puymirol realised it.
"In short," continued the magistrate, "if you will only tell the truth, I can almost promise that you would escape indictment."
Puymirol's eyes flashed. He espied liberty before him—the effacement of his fault, a bright future; but his face suddenly clouded, his features contracted, and he said, with a scornful gesture: "Bah! your clemency could not restore me what I have lost. A man who has spent three days in prison is dishonoured for life. Besides, I haven't a penny, and the only future in store for me is starvation."
"I can prove to you that you have nothing of the kind to fear. You come from Périgord, don't you, and your relatives reside there?"
"My only remaining relative is an aunt who allows me two thousand francs a year; my father left me nothing but debts."
"Which were long since paid by your aunt, Madame Bessèges, who resides at Montpazier, in the department of the Dordogne."
"How do you know that?"
"I have naturally made inquiries about you, and have learned that you belong to an old and highly respected family."
"Oh! We have been ruined for centuries."
"Your aunt made a wealthy marriage, however, and she inherited all her husband's property."
"Yes, but I sha'n't inherit her fortune."
"You have done so already. She died three days ago, after appointing you her sole legatee; and you consequently possess an income of eighty thousand francs. Oh! don't think I am jesting! Since your arrest, all letters addressed to you have been seized at the post-office. This was done by my orders. I hoped that in your correspondence I might find some clue to this mystery, but I was disappointed in that respect. This morning, however, there came a letter from a notary at Montpazier, announcing your aunt's sudden death, and inclosing a certified copy of her will. The document will be given to you as soon as you are set at liberty."
"Then you intend to set me at liberty?"
"That depends entirely upon yourself. The affair of the lottery ticket, and that of the murder, are closely connected, though one is of great, and the other of trifling importance. If you persist in remaining silent, I shall be compelled to believe that you are the culprit, in both cases, for you would not refuse to explain matters if you were merely guilty of a trifling misdemeanour. If you are innocent of the capital charge, you have only to tell me the truth about the finding of the lottery tickets, and I will release you." Puymirol, deeply moved, evidently hesitated. "Pray, recollect," continued the magistrate, "that I shall eventually succeed in solving the mystery without your assistance, so spare me the pain of sending you to Mazas. You are now rich, and public feeling is always very lenient towards the wealthy. Your mishap will soon be forgotten, and your life will become a pleasant one. But, perhaps, you prefer the Assizes? Choose."
Puymirol's choice was already made. Whilst poor, he had been reticent to the verge of heroism. He had not thought it worth his while to purchase freedom by a confession, merely to drag out a miserable existence. He preferred to take his chances of conviction, and profit by his silence afterwards, for he felt sure that the Countess de Lescombat would not fail to reward him eventually. However, he now viewed his situation under an entirely different light. To re-enter the gay world of Paris, which so quickly forgets misdemeanours; to begin life again with plenty of money, that made it well worth his while to yield to the magistrate's entreaties. Besides, as he was well aware, this magistrate already suspected the truth, which truth was likely to come to light at any moment. He had only to question George Caumont, and the latter would probably tell all he knew, reticent as he had been at first. Puymirol reasoned thus, being entirely ignorant of all that had occurred since his arrest. He did not suspect that George was far more deeply interested than himself in concealing the truth about the letters, since one of them, and the only one to which Puymirol attached no importance, had been written by Gabrielle's mother. Being ignorant of this fact, Adhémar naturally supposed that he might venture to confess the truth, without injuring his friend, who felt very little interest in Blanche Pornic, and still less in the Countess de Lescombat. "Well, sir," he began, "I am deeply touched by the kindness and consideration with which you have treated me, and I should be ungrateful, indeed, if I longer resisted your entreaties. I will therefore confess that I know Dargental's murderer."
"At last!" exclaimed M. Robergeot, with a meaning glance at his clerk who had been sitting hard by, idly twirling his pen.
Puymirol then duly acquainted the magistrate with the precise circumstances of the finding of the pocket-book in the cab, on the way to the Lion d'Or, and this point being disposed of he continued: "I am now coming to the most important incident of my story. On the day preceding my arrest, I dined at the Lion d'Or, and had scarcely begun my dinner when I noticed that a gentleman who had taken a seat near me was staring at me with unusual persistency. This gentleman finally seated himself at my table, and then made some very strange disclosures. He began by admitting that he was the person who had thrown the pocket-book into the cab."
"What was his object in telling you that, for he must have had an object in confessing that he had thrown his pocket-book away?"
"He wished me to return it to him."
"Did you comply with his request?"
"No. I replied that I had left it at home, but that I would send it to him if he would give me his address. That he declined to do. He then begged of me to make an appointment to meet him somewhere. I refused, and asked him why he was so anxious to regain possession of an article that was not worth more than fifteen or twenty francs. He made some very poor excuse, and, to try him, I told him I had taken it to the commissary of police in the Chaussée d'Antin, whereupon he seemed greatly disturbed, and after mumbling out some unintelligible excuse, he left me."
"Did you allow the matter to drop there?"
"Wait a moment. I had a plan, and I proceeded to carry it into execution. I had the pocket-book about me at the time, and I have since thought that he must have seen the end of it projecting from my pocket. I did not suspect it then, however, and I took it into my head to find out who he was, for I was as anxious to discover Dargental's murderer as you can be. I thought that by following him at a little distance I should be able to find out where he lived. I adopted this course, and he let me follow him till we reached a lonely spot not far from the Avenue de Villiers; whereupon he turned to the right, into a little street I had never seen before. Here, I unconsciously ventured too near him, for he had concealed himself, and just as I least expected it, he seized me by the throat, throwing me to the ground, and nearly strangling me. When I regained consciousness, I perceived that he had taken the pocket-book from me, and that he was already almost out of sight."
M. Robergeot listened very attentively to this narrative, and when Puymirol paused, he quietly remarked: "The lottery tickets went as well, I suppose?"
"No," murmured Puymirol, slightly embarrassed. "I half suspected that the rascal intended to attack me, so I took the precaution to remove them from the pocket-book. I am sorry now that I did not leave them there, for in that case I should not have been tempted to use them, whereas, if he had yielded to the temptation, you would now have Dargental's real murderer in your power."
"Can you describe this man?" asked M. Robergeot.
"Certainly," replied Puymirol, delighted at this promising beginning. "He was about fifty years of age, and of medium height, though rather strongly built, with a dark complexion, rather keen eyes, and a very energetic face. There was nothing particularly striking about his appearance, but I should recognise him among a thousand."
"Your description agrees with that given by the cabman. But how did this man act when you spoke to him about the murder?"
"I did not speak to him on the subject," answered Puymirol, slightly disconcerted. "The fact is, I was afraid of arousing his suspicions. It was a part of my plan to let him do all the talking. I hoped he would betray himself."
"But you must have asked him why he threw the pocket-book into your cab?"
"Of course, and he replied that there were persons following him, and anxious to rob him, and that he could think of no other way of outwitting them."
"The contents of this pocket-book must have been very valuable, judging by his anxiety to secure possession of it again."
"Perhaps it had contained some bank-notes, but when it came into my hands there was nothing in it but the lottery tickets."
"And it was to recover these lottery tickets that this fellow risked his head?—for he did risk it by entering into conversation with you in a public place, as you had only to denounce him to secure his arrest. In fact, it was your duty to have sent word to a commissary of police while the scoundrel was seated at your table. Come, sir, complete your confession. Confess that there were some letters in the pocket-book—compromising letters, no doubt."
Puymirol turned pale, and hung his head. He saw that he was caught in his own trap. There was no course for him now but to make a clean breast of it. "You are right, sir," he said resolutely, "and I admit that I have done wrong in hiding that fact. There were some letters which I entrusted to my friend, Caumont; but I must add that he consented to accept the trust greatly against his will, and that, from the very first, he urged me to take the pocket-book and its contents to a commissary of police."
"And you say he has these letters?"
"Unless he has burned them, which is not unlikely. He is well acquainted with Balmer, and must have heard of my arrest, so that a fear of injuring me may have led him to destroy the notes."
"It will be very unfortunate for you, and for him, if these letters have disappeared. Did you read them?"
"Yes, and they were all written by women, former sweethearts of Dargental's, evidently. In fact, I feel almost positive that one of these women instigated the murder. However, these letters were none of them signed, so that the best means of getting at the truth would be to find the man who threw the pocket-book into our cab, and who afterwards succeeded in taking it from me. When he is once under arrest, it is probable that he will make a full confession, and name the woman who hired him to commit the crime, for it will be greatly to his interest to throw a part of the responsibility upon her."
M. Robergeot was about to reply, but just then a clerk entered by a side-door, and approaching the magistrate, said a few words to him in a low tone. "Very well, show him in," was the response, and an instant afterwards the door opened for the second time, and George Caumont appeared. His manner was graver than usual; and it was very evident that he was trying hard to repress some strong emotion. He bowed politely to the magistrate, and then walked to Puymirol, with whom he shook hands.
"I am very glad to see you," said Adhémar. "Your testimony will confirm the statements I have just made."
"I will spare you the trouble of questioning this gentleman," interrupted M. Robergeot, and turning to George, he said: "Take a chair."
George silently obeyed, and waited. "Have you brought the letters?" asked the magistrate point blank.
"What letters?" asked George, pretending not to understand.
"The letters that were in the pocket-book."
"I haven't the slightest idea what you mean."
"Oh! your friend here intrusted them to your care."
On hearing this, George, in surprise, glanced at Puymirol, who exclaimed: "You can speak. I have told everything."
Caumont turned pale. He forgot that Puymirol did not know Madame Verdon, so that he could not have mentioned her as one of Dargental's correspondents. "It would ill become me to contradict a man I like and esteem," he said in a voice husky with emotion, "and nothing could have induced me to betray the secret he confided to me, but as he bids me speak, I admit that on the day I saw Monsieur de Puymirol for the last time, he intrusted a package of letters to my care, begging me to take charge of them until his return home. As he failed to make his appearance, I felt very anxious about him. However, Monsieur Balmer informed me that my missing friend was in prison. I also learned from the same source that his rooms had been searched; and as I was perfectly satisfied in my own mind that this search had been made for the express purpose of securing the letters in question, I thought it best to burn them."
"Indeed! Ah! You have done very wrong;" exclaimed the magistrate. "By destroying those letters you have made yourself, in a measure, the accomplice of a murderer."
Here Puymirol, thinking that George was getting them both into trouble, deemed it advisable to interfere. "Confess that you haven't burned them," he interposed, quickly. "You promised to keep them, and your word can be depended upon. You prevaricate from excess of delicacy, and because you are afraid of implicating some of Dargental's old flames. That is absurd. We should be simpletons to compromise ourselves on their account. I would give up the letters, if I had them, without the slightest compunction."
George was suffering terribly. He was on the rack, and his friend seemed to be deserting him. Ah, how glad he would have been to throw the letters on the magistrate's desk, if one of them had not come from Madame Verdon. He now regretted that he had not kept the other two, or, at least, Madame de Lescombat's, for he hated her with all his heart. "I repeat that I have not got them," he said, gloomily.
M. Robergeot was about to put an end to the discussion, when his messenger reappeared, this time with a note which the magistrate tore open carelessly, little suspecting its importance. But he had scarcely glanced at it, when his expression changed. "Who gave you this letter?" he inquired, eagerly.
"A man who is waiting for an answer."
"Very well; go and tell him that I will ring for him in a few moments. Until then, don't lose sight of him, and if he attempts to go away, detain him, by force if necessary, even if you have to call upon the guards for assistance." As soon as the messenger had left the room, M. Robergeot turned to the two young fellows and said: "To which of you am I indebted for this mystification? For it is the work of one of you, I feel certain." Then, seeing them look at each other in very natural astonishment: "These are the terms of the letter I have just received," he continued. "'Pierre Dargental's murderer desires an immediate interview with the magistrate. He gives himself up, but he has some revelations to make before the magistrate signs the order for his detention.' Now, have you any knowledge of this strange culprit? Am I indebted to you for bringing him to light?"
"What possible motive could we have had?" asked George.
"Then you have no idea who he is?"
"Not the slightest."
"Well, I am now about to send for this man," resumed M. Robergeot, gravely. "Remain seated, and say nothing, whoever he may prove to be. You must not speak till I have finished."
"Very well," replied Puymirol; "but you won't forbid me to look at him, and if it is my acquaintance of the restaurant, I will warn you by a sign. If I recognise him, I will raise my hand to my forehead."
"So be it; but confine yourself to that. As for you, Monsieur Caumont, I give you permission to do the same, if you recognise this man as the person who threw the pocket-book into your cab on the Place du Carrousel."
George remained silent. He had not yet admitted that he was in the cab at the time, and he did not deem it advisable to admit it now. M. Robergeot did not insist, however. He rang, and the stranger entered, closely followed by the messenger, and advanced towards the desk at which the magistrate was seated; but on perceiving the two friends, whom he had failed to notice at first, he turned pale, and stopped short. Puymirol found it very difficult to keep quiet, for he had recognised the mysterious stranger of the Lion d'Or at the very first glance. He restrained himself, however, and, without a word, passed his hand across his forehead. George Caumont, on his side, remained silent and motionless; but every vestige of colour had fled from his cheeks, leaving him even paler than the visitor who declared himself to be Dargental's murderer. "Come, sir," the magistrate said to the new comer, without inviting him to be seated, "I do not suppose that you came here to play a joke on me; but I can not help wondering if you are in your right mind. I warn you that I have no time to lose. So explain the meaning of the extraordinary letter I have just received from you. I should mention that these gentlemen are suspected of being accomplices in the crime of which you accuse yourself. I, therefore, that they should hear what you have to say."
"They accomplices!" exclaimed the stranger. "I declare that they are both innocent. I had no accomplices."
"Then you don't know either of these gentlemen?"
However, instead of falling into the trap set for him, the new comer coolly replied: "I don't know their names, but I have seen them before. I have even had a long conversation with one of them. That one," he added, pointing to Puymirol.
"Where, and under what circumstances?"
"At the restaurant known as the Lion d'Or, which I entered for the express purpose of speaking to him."
"That is perfectly true!" cried Puymirol, delighted to hear the culprit confirm the testimony he had given.
"And where did you see that gentleman?" asked the magistrate, pointing to George Caumont.
"I saw him but once in a cab on the Place du Carrousel."
"Well, why was it that you killed Pierre Dargental, on the 9th of April last?"
"Because he refused to surrender to me some letters which he intended to use against a woman."
"But why did you interest yourself in her behalf?"
"I was in love with her. She is a married woman, and Dargental threatened to denounce her to her husband, who would have killed her, had he seen those proofs of her infatuation."
"So you became a murderer through love and devotion?" said M. Robergeot, ironically. "We will see by-and-by how the jury appreciate these extenuating circumstances. In the meantime, if you wish me to believe you, you must give me the name of this woman who was, of course, your accomplice."
"No, sir; I acted entirely without her knowledge or consent. She is absolutely ignorant of what I have done."
"Then you refuse to give me her name?"
"Is it likely that I have risked my life, and surrender it to you, in view of betraying the woman I have sworn to save? Take my life; it is yours; but I shall carry my secret with me to the grave."
George's face brightened, and Puymirol could not help showing his admiration for this heroism on the part of the man he had so bitterly anathematized. "You fancy that this secret will die with you," replied the magistrate; "but I think I shall succeed in discovering it. I believe I am already on the track." And then, gazing searchingly at the stranger, M. Robergeot said:
"We will return to this subject presently. You must now give me the particulars of the murder."
"It is for that purpose that I came here," replied the new comer, coldly. "I called on Dargental at about eleven o'clock, on the morning of April 9th. He admitted me himself, ushered me into the dining-room, and left me in order to enter his bed-chamber. He returned a moment afterwards with a pistol in his hand; and I had scarcely begun to explain the object of my visit, before he began to abuse me in the most insulting manner. He showered offensive epithets upon me, and uttered the most violent threats against the person whom I wished to place beyond the reach of his knavery. He declared that if she did not pay him the sum of two hundred thousand francs before two days had expired, he would send the letters she had been so imprudent as to write him, to her husband. He added that these letters were then in his pocket, ready to be produced at any moment. Frantic with rage, I sprang at his throat. He freed himself, and threatened me with his pistol; I tried to wrest it from him, but during the struggle, and at a moment when the barrel of the pistol was pointed at his breast, the weapon went off."
"And the bullet pierced Dargental's heart? This was a most unlucky chance. You are remarkably clever. You almost convince me that you were acting only in self-defence, and that the crime you committed was simply justifiable homicide. Well, what after?"
"I lifted the body, placed it in an arm-chair, searched all his pockets, found the note-case he always carried upon his person, opened it, satisfied myself that the letters were there, placed it in my pocket, and left the house without even taking the precaution to wash my blood-stained hands."
"Which left stains upon the lottery tickets you had handled?"
"That is true; I recollect now, that there were some lottery tickets in one of the compartments of the pocket-book."
"Well, you have not told me all. What occurred afterwards?"
"I left the house, fully intending to return home and burn the letters, after showing them to the writer, but, on the Boulevard Haussmann, I saw two men who pretended to be strolling along, looking into the shop windows, but whom I instantly recognised, in spite of their disguise, as two men of a detective agency, whom the lady's husband had hired to watch his wife. Dargental had sent him anonymous letters about her and me. They started after me, and at the corner of the Rue de Rivoli and the Rue des Pyramides one of them stopped to speak to a policeman, while the other continued to follow me. I watched the movements of the policeman out of the corner of my eye, and saw that he refused to interfere. The next one we met might prove less scrupulous, and I might be arrested and taken to the station-house, where I should certainly be searched, and the letters found upon me. I realized my danger, and felt that I had not a moment to lose in getting rid of the letters, so without stopping to reflect, I adopted the first plan that occurred to me. I was just passing one of the outlets of the Place du Carrousel. There was a long line of vehicles. The private detectives were following me at a little distance, talking together, probably making arrangements to pick a quarrel with me, in order to attract the attention of the police, who would take us to the station house. At all events their conversation was so animated that they forgot to watch my movements. In the last cab on the line I saw two gentlemen. The window was open, and I dropped the pocket-book inside, carefully noting the number of the vehicle as I did so. The two detectives gave me no further trouble, however, as no policeman would consent to lend them a helping hand, still they followed me to Montrouge. There is a house there with which I am familiar, and which has two outsets. I entered it, and made my escape by one door, while the two rascals were talking with the porter at the other."
"Is this all you have to tell me?" inquired M. Robergeot.
"Yes, sir," the man replied, coldly. "You now merely have to send me to prison."
"Which I shall proceed to do so as soon as certain formalities are complied with. Your disclosures were so unexpected that I quite forgot to ask your name, profession, age and residence."
"It is useless to ask me for information that I can not give."
"And why not?"
"Because I should betray a secret that is not my own. If I told you who I am, you would soon know the woman I wish to save."
"You hope to die like Campi, who was executed without any one having been able to discover his real name. Your case does not resemble his in the least, however."
"No, certainly not, and I shall die in an entirely different way, but I shall die unknown."
This was said in a tone that made M. Robergeot wonder if he were not dealing with a madman. "But your deposition must be signed," said he.
"Oh! I am quite ready to acknowledge in writing that I have told the truth, and that I have nothing to retract, but I shall sign the first name that occurs to me."
The magistrate felt that it was time to put an end to this discussion. He knew that time and solitude overcome the most stubborn resistance; besides, the presence of the two friends was a constraint upon him. "So be it," said he. "I shall question you again, however, after you have had time for reflection. In the meantime, you can write your acknowledgment, after first reading the deposition you have just made."
The stranger thereupon rose up, approached the clerk's table, took a pen, and then at the bottom of the last page of the report of his evidence he wrote these words: "I declare that I persist in my statements correctly recorded above: that I alone, and of my own free will, killed Pierre Dargental; that no one prompted me to commit the crime, and that no one knew I was the perpetrator of the murder, until I made the above confession in the presence of Monsieur Robergeot, and of two gentlemen unknown to me."
He then handed the document to the magistrate, who, after glancing at it, said quietly: "Very well. You will now be taken to the dépôt."
But all at once the man retreated to the wall, which was only three or four steps from him, put his hand in his overcoat pocket, and drew out a weapon that elicited an exclamation of dismay from the magistrate. This weapon was one of those old-fashioned horse pistols, rarely seen now-a-days, and before any one could reach the stranger, he had raised this fire-arm to his head and pulled the trigger. A loud explosion shook the walls; a cloud of smoke filled the office, and drops of warm blood spurted in Puymirol's face. The murderer was lying motionless at the foot of the wall—dead. The witnesses of this sudden suicide stood for a moment overcome with horror. The guard, who had escorted Puymirol into the room, looked as white as a sheet, though he was an old soldier. The clerk, in his alarm, had entered the office without waiting for M. Robergeot to ring. "Fetch the commissary of police on duty here in the palace," said the magistrate. "I, myself, will summon the public prosecutor. Your examination is ended for the present, gentlemen. You, Monsieur Caumont, are at liberty to retire, but you must hold yourself in readiness to appear before me at any moment, for this affair is not ended. You, Monsieur de Puymirol, will return to the dépôt, and remain there until I send for you which will be in a short time, probably."
George rushed wildly through the passages, and it was not until he found himself out of doors that he again breathed freely Where could he find Albert? They had parted in the Rue de Medicis, after vainly waiting for Roch Plancoët to join them in the garden of the Luxembourg. George had, of course, been obliged to follow the messenger sent to conduct him before the magistrate; and Albert had parted from him with a cheery: "I'll see you again to-morrow." But George now wanted to see the young officer at once; for the man who had just blown his brains out in the presence of the two friends was Roch Plancoët, and it had cost George no little effort to conceal his emotion on seeing him enter M. Robergeot's office. Why had he killed himself? and why had he declared to George's profound astonishment that he was Dargental's murderer? Evidently to spare Gabrielle the pain of knowing her mother's disgrace. But what a strange means he had employed! Could he have really believed that the authorities would always remain ignorant of his name? He had certainly disfigured himself beyond power of recognition, but justice possesses other means of establishing a person's identity. Besides, was his statement really correct? The story of the agents despatched to watch him by M. Rochas was very extraordinary, and yet, otherwise, why had he thrown the pocket-book into the cab? Whilst thus reflecting, George Caumont reached the Place Saint-Michel. Some omnibuses there barred his passage, and while waiting to pass, he saw Madame Verdon approaching him. He tried to avoid her, but it was too late. She called to him, and said: "Well, are you satisfied? You have leagued yourself with Albert and Gabrielle, I see, so as to force me to leave Paris, and you have even sent Monsieur Plancoët to me with your orders. You deserve to marry a girl who rebels against her mother. However, farewell, and good luck to you," she added, with a sneering laugh. "I have just been to Plancoët's notary and have left him my written consent to your marriage. Monsieur Rochas is waiting for me, and I must make haste if I want to catch the express for Rome, via Florence."
With these concluding words, she entered a passing cab, leaving George amazed and indignant beyond expression. On his way up the Boulevard Saint-Michel he was obliged to pass Madame Verdon's residence, and he felt strongly tempted to enter it. Gabrielle was there, no doubt, but what should he say to her? How could he explain to her, her mother's conduct, and acquaint her with the tragical death of her old friend, Roch? It would certainly be better to allow her brother time to prepare her for this blow. Accordingly he walked straight on to the Rue de Medicis. Here his doorkeeper handed him a note from Albert which ran as follows: "Everything has been arranged. I have seen my sister, and this evening I shall take her to the house of Madame de Brangue, my colonel's wife, who will act as her chaperon for the present. Call on me to-morrow morning, at nine o'clock, at the Hôtel de l'Empereur Joseph, in the Rue de Tournon. Try to find Plancoët before you come, and bring him with you. His visit to my mother accomplished wonders. What a friend we have in him! He has saved us all."
"At the cost of his life!" murmured George, sorrowfully, for he did not share the illusions of his future brother-in-law.
However, he was punctual in keeping the appointment that Albert had made with him for the following morning, and on reaching the hotel he found the lieutenant smoking a cigar in his room. The first words that the young officer articulated were: "Where is Plancoët? Didn't you bring him with you?"
George shook his head. He did not know how to break the terrible news to his prospective brother-in-law. "Plancoët will never come," he at last said, sadly.
"Why? has any accident happened to him?"
George was about to reply that he was dead, when one of the hotel servants entered with a letter which he handed to Albert. "Why, this note is from Roch," exclaimed the young officer in astonishment. "How strange for him to write instead of coming to see me. The letter must have been posted yesterday evening. Let us see what he has to say."
He broke the seal, and drew from the envelope two sheets of paper which George had only to glance at, to recognise the letters of Blanche Pornic and the countess. Albert laid them on the table and then opening the missive from Plancoët which accompanied them, he read aloud as follows: "'My dear boy,—You, as yet, only know a part of the truth, and you must know it all. You will henceforth be the head of the family; and until your sister marries, you will be responsible for her, for I shall not be at hand to watch over her.'"
"Why, what can he be driving at?" exclaimed the lieutenant. "Roch is the best fellow in the world, but he has a fondness for making a mystery out of everything.
"'I am sure that your mother will yield,'" he continued, resuming his perusual, "'and it is hardly probable that you will ever see her again. That is why, before I go to see her, I wish to make you clearly understand the part she has played in an affair which has proved so terrible in its consequences to us all, and to me especially. I need not revert to the past, nor need I speak of your mother's fault. I can only plead extenuating circumstances on her behalf. While your poor father lived she did not fail in her duty. She brought you up carefully, your sister and yourself; she even loved you devotedly. It was her husband's death that caused all this misery. Left to herself, and transplanted to Paris, she lacked the strength to resist the many temptations of her new life; and fate willed that she should meet a scoundrel who only thought of profiting by her weakness. He wanted to marry her for her money, but I managed to prevent that, though she fell a willing victim to his fascinations. She finally discovered, however, that she had several rivals in his affections, and a rupture followed. She could not escape from Dargental's persecutions; his demands never ceased, and latterly, they assumed such a threatening character that I resolved to put an end to them. I could not choose my means in doing this. It was absolutely necessary to secure the restitution of a letter which Dargental had threatened to send to Monsieur Rochas, in case your mother did not consent to purchase it at a cost of two hundred thousand francs; and I could not hope to obtain it from Dargental by persuasion. Your mother was terribly frightened, and wished to marry as soon as possible in order to have a protector capable of defending her. I took good care not to say a word to her about the plan which I had formed, and which I executed without anybody's help. I resolved to kill Dargental, and I did kill him!'
"Plancoët a murderer! impossible!" exclaimed the lieutenant.
"I knew it," murmured George. "Go on to the end, my friend."
Albert was in consternation, but he, nevertheless, continued: "'I killed him, after a violent altercation which would almost justify me in pleading that I only acted in self-defence; but I believe I should have killed him in any case. This man would have cast a shadow over Gabrielle's whole life. He was a disgrace to mankind. I secured the letter which he had intended to use as a weapon against your mother and yourselves, and I left the house; and we should have all been saved but for a strange fatality. When you see Monsieur Caumont again, ask him to explain how he and his friend, Monsieur de Puymirol, came into possession of the pocket-book I had taken from Dargental, and tell him that I was the person who threw that pocket-book into their cab. He will guess the rest, and explain everything to you. I enclose in this note the letters written by the two ladies I do not know. I keep the third, which will be useful to me in negotiating with your mother. If she accepts the conditions we have agreed to impose upon her—as I have no doubt she will—I shall leave her letter with Monsieur Berlier, my notary, who resides at No. 7 on the Quai Saint-Michel, with instructions to give it to your mother in exchange for her written consent to your sister's marriage with Monsieur Caumont.'"